XINGU 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


.XINGU 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 
BY 

EDITH    WHARTON 
ii 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,    1916,    BY   CHARLES   SCRIBNER's   SONS 


Published  October,  1916 


TABLE    OF  'CONTENTS///^  X-5" 


I 
Xingu  I 

n 

Coming  Home  43 

III 

Autres  Temps  ...  99 

IV 

Kerfol  151 

V 

The  Long  Run  189 

VI 

The  Triumph  of  Night  239 

VII 

The  Choice  281 

VIII 

Bunner  Sisters  307 


a  4 1)793 


XINGU 


XINGU 

I 

MRS.  BALLINGER  is  one  of  the  ladies  who  pur 
sue  Culture  in  bands,  as  though  it  were  dan 
gerous  to  meet  alone.  To  this  end  she  had 
founded  the  Lunch  Club,  an  association  composed  of  her 
self  and  several  other  indomitable  huntresses  of  erudition. 
The  Lunch  Club,  after  three  or  four  winters  of  lunching 
and  debate,  had  acquired  such  local  distinction  that  the 
entertainment  of  distinguished  strangers  became  one  of 
its  accepted  functions;  in  recognition  of  which  it  duly  ex 
tended  to  the  celebrated  "Osric  Dane,"  on  the  day  of 
her  arrival  in  Hillbridge,  an  invitation  to  be  present  at 
the  next  meeting. 

The  club  was  to  meet  at  Mrs.  Ballinger's.  The  other 
members,  behind  her  back,  were  of  one  voice  in  deplor 
ing  her  unwillingness  to  cede  her  rights  in  favor  of  Mrs. 
Plinth,  whose  house  made  a  more  impressive  setting  for 
the  entertainment  of  celebrities;  while,  as  Mrs.  Leveret 
observed,  there  was  always  the  picture-gallery  to  fall 
back  on. 

Mrs.  Plinth  made  no  secret  of  sharing  this  view.  She 
had  always  regarded  it  as  one  of 'her  obligations  to  enter- 
[3] 


XINGTJ 

tain  the  Lunch  Club's  distinguished  guests.  Mrs.  Plinth 
was  almost  as  proud  of  her  obligations  as  she  was  of  her 
picture-gallery;  she  was  in  fact  fond  of  implying  that  the 
one  possession  implied  the  other,  and  that  only  a  woman 
of  her  wealth  could  afford  to  live  up  to  a  standard  as  high 
as  that  which  she  had  set  herself.  An  all-round  sense  of 
duty,  roughly  adaptable  to  various  ends,  was,  in  her 
opinion,  all  that  Providence  exacted  of  the  more  humbly 
stationed;  but  the  power  which  had  predestined  Mrs. 
Plinth  to  keep  a  footman  clearly  intended  her  to  main 
tain  an  equally  specialized  staff  of  responsibilities.  It  was 
the  more  to  be  regretted  that  Mrs.  Ballinger,  whose  obli 
gations  to  society  were  bounded  by  the  narrow  scope  of 
two  parlour-maids,  should  have  been  so  tenacious  of  the 
right  to  entertain  Osric  Dane. 

The  question  of  that  lady's  reception  had  for  a  month 
past  profoundly  moved  the  members  of  the  Lunch  Club. 
It  was  not  that  they  felt  themselves  unequal  to  the  task, 
but  that  their  sense  of  the  opportunity  plunged  them  into 
the  agreeable  uncertainty  of  the  lady  who  weighs  the 
alternatives  of  a  well-stocked  wardrobe.  If  such  subsidi 
ary  members  as  Mrs.  Leveret  were  fluttered  by  the 
thought  of  exchanging  ideas  with  the  author  of  "The 
Wings  of  Death,"  no  forebodings  disturbed  the  con 
scious  adequacy  of  Mrs.  Plinth,  Mrs.  Ballinger  and  Miss 
Van  Vluyck.  "The  Wings  of  Death"  had,  in  fact,  at  Miss 
Van  Vluyck's  suggestion,  been  chosen  as  the  subject  of 
[4] 


XINGU 

discussion  at  the  last  club  meeting,  and  each  member 
had  thus  been  enabled  to  express  her  own  opinion  or  to 
appropriate  whatever  sounded  well  in  the  comments  of 
the  others. 

Mrs.  Roby  alone  had  abstained  from  profiting  by  the 
opportunity;  but  it  was  now  openly  recognised  that,  as 
a  member  of  the  Lunch  Club,  Mrs.  Roby  was  a  failure. 
"It  all  comes,"  as  Miss  Van  Vluyck  put  it,  "of  accepting 
a  woman  on  a  man's  estimation."  Mrs.  Roby,  returning 
to  Hillbridge  from  a  prolonged  sojourn  in  exotic  lands — 
the  other  ladies  no  longer  took  the  trouble  to  remember 
where — had  been  heralded  by  the  distinguished  biologist, 
Professor  Foreland,  as  the  most  agreeable  woman  he  had 
ever  met;  and  the  members  of  the  Lunch  Club,  impressed 
by  an  encomium  that  carried  the  weight  of  a  diploma, 
and  rashly  assuming  that  the  Professor's  social  sympa 
thies  would  follow  the  line  of  his  professional  bent,  had 
seized  the  chance  of  annexing  a  biological  member. 
Their  disillusionment  was  complete.  At  Miss  Van  Vluyck's 
first  off-hand  mention  of  the  pterodactyl  Mrs.  Roby  had 
confusedly  murmured:  "I  know  so  little  about  metres — 
and  after  that  painful  betrayal  of  incompetence  she  had 
prudently  withdrawn  from  farther  participation  in  the 
mental  gymnastics  of  the  club. 

"I    suppose    she    flattered    him,"    Miss    Van    Vluyck 
summed  up — "or  else  it's  the  way  she  does  her  hair." 

The  dimensions  of  Miss  Van  Vluyck's  dining-room  hav- 

m 


XINGU 

ing  restricted  the  membership  of  the  club  to  six,  the  non- 
conductiveness  of  one  member  was  a  serious  obstacle  to 
the  exchange  of  ideas,  and  some  wonder  had  already 
been  expressed  that  Mrs.  Roby  should  care  to  live,  as 
it  were,  on  the  intellectual  bounty  of  the  others.  This 
feeling  was  increased  by  the  discovery  that  she  had  not 
yet  read  "The  Wings  of  Death."  She  owned  to  having 
heard  the  name  of  Osric  Dane;  but  that — incredible  as 
it  appeared — was  the  extent  of  her  acquaintance  with 
the  celebrated  novelist.  The  ladies  could  not  conceal 
their  surprise;  but  Mrs.  Ballinger,  whose  pride  in  the 
club  made  her  wish  to  put  even  Mrs.  Roby  in  the  best 
possible  light,  gently  insinuated  that,  though  she  had 
not  had  time  to  acquaint  herself  with  "The  Wings  of 
Death,"  she  must  at  least  be  familiar  with  its  equally 
remarkable  predecessor,  "The  Supreme  Instant." 

^Mrs.  Roby  wrinkled  her  sunny  brows  in  a  conscientious 
effort  of  memory,  as  a  result  of  which  she  recalled  that, 
oh,  yes,  she  had  seen  the  book  at  her  brother's,  when  she 
was  staying  with  him  in  Brazil,  and  had  even  carried  it 
off  to  read  one  day  on  a  boating  party;  but  they  had  all 
got  to  shying  things  at  each  other  in  the  boat,  and  the 
book  had  gone  overboard,  so  she  had  never  had  the 
chance — 

The  picture  evoked  by  this  anecdote  did  not  increase 
Mrs.  Roby's  credit  with  the  club,  and  there  was  a  pain 
ful  pause,  which  was  broken  by  Mrs.  Plinth's  remarking: 
[6] 


X  I  N  G  IT 

"I  can  understand  that,  with  all  your  other  pursuits,  you 
should  not  find  much  time  for  reading;  but  I  should  have 
thought  you  might  at  least  have  got  up  'The  Wings  of 
Death'  before  Osric  Dane's  arrival." 

Mrs.  Roby  took  this  rebuke  good-humouredly.  She  had 
meant,  she  owned,  to  glance  through  the  book;  but  she 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  a  novel  of  Trollope's  that — 

"No  one  reads  Trollope  now,"  Mrs.  Ballinger  inter 
rupted. 

Mrs.  Roby  looked  pained.  "I'm  only  just  beginning," 
she  confessed. 

"And  does  he  interest  you?"  Mrs.  Plinth  enquired. 

"He  amuses  me." 

"Amusement,"  said  Mrs.  Plinth,  "is  hardly  what  I 
look  for  in  my  choice  of  books." 

"Oh,  certainly,  'The  Wings  of  Death'  is  not  amusing," 
ventured  Mrs.  Leveret,  whose  manner  of  putting  forth 
an  opinion  was  like  that  of  an  obliging  salesman  with  a 
variety  of  other  styles  to  submit  if  his  first  selection  does 
not  suit. 

"Was  it  meant  to  be?"  enquired  Mrs.  Plinth,  who  was 
fond  of  asking  questions  that  she  permitted  no  one  but 
herself  to  answer.  "Assuredly  not." 

"Assuredly  not — that  is  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  as 
sented  Mrs.  Leveret,  hastily  rolling  up  her  opinion  and 
reaching  for  another.  "It  was  meant  to — to  elevate." 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  adjusted  her  spectacles  as  though 
[7] 


XINGU 

tliey  were  the  black  cap  of  condemnation.  "I  hardly  see," 
she  interposed,  "how  a  book  steeped  in  the  bitterest 
pessimism  can  be  said  to  elevate,  however  much  it  may 
instruct." 

"I  meant,  of  course,  to  instruct,"  said  Mrs.  Leveret, 
flurried  by  the  unexpected  distinction  between  two  terms 
which  she  had  supposed  to  be  synonymous.  Mrs.  Leveret's 
enjoyment  of  the  Lunch  Club  was  frequently  marred  by 
such  surprises;  and  not  knowing  her  own  value  to  the 
other  ladies  as  a  mirror  for  their  mental  complacency  she 
was  sometimes  troubled  by  a  doubt  of  her  worthiness  to 
join  in  their  debates.  It  was  only  the  fact  of  having  a 
dull  sister  who  thought  her  clever  that  saved  her  from  a 
sense  of  hopeless  inferiority. 

"Do  they  get  married  in  the  end?"  Mrs.  Roby  inter 
posed. 

"They — who?"  the  Lunch  Club  collectively  exclaimed. 

"Why,  the  girl  and  man.  It's  a  novel,  isn't  it?  I  always 
think  that's  the  one  thing  that  matters.  If  they're  parted 
it  spoils  my  dinner." 

Mrs.  Plinth  and  Mrs.  Ballinger  exchanged  scandalised 
glances,  and  the  latter  said:  "I  should  hardly  ajlvise  you 
to  read  'The  Wings  of  Death'  in  that  spirit.  For  my 
part,  when  there  are  so  many  books  one  has  to  read,  I 
wonder  how  any  one  can  find  time  for  those  that  are 
merely  amusing." 

"The  beautiful  part  of  it,"  Laura  Glyde  murmured, 
[8] 


X I  N  G  U 

"is  surely  just  this — that  no  one  can  tell  how  'The  Wings 
of  Death'  ends.  Osric  Dane,  overcome  by  the  awful 
significance  of  her  own  meaning,  has  mercifully  veiled  it 
— perhaps  even  from  herself — as  Apelles,  in  representing 
the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  veiled  the  face  of  Agamemnon." 

"What's  that?  Is  it  poetry?"  whispered  Mrs.  Leveret 
to  Mrs.  Plinth,  who,  disdaining  a  definite  reply,  said 
coldly:  "You  should  look  it  up.  I  always  make  it  a  point 
to  look  things  up."  Her  tone  added — "though  I  might 
easily  have  it  done  for  me  by  the  footman." 

"I  was  about  to  say,"  Miss  Van  Vluyck  resumed, 
"that  it  must  always  be  a  question  whether  a  book  can 
instruct  unless  it  elevates." 

"Oh — "  murmured  Mrs.  Leveret,  now  feeling  herself 
hopelessly  astray. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Ballinger,  scenting  in  Miss 
Van  Vluyck's  tone  a  tendency  to  depreciate  the  coveted 
distinction  of  entertaining  Osric  Dane;  "I  don't  know 
that  such  a  question  can  seriously  be  raised  as  to  a  book 
which  has  attracted  more  attention  among  thoughtful 
people  than  any  novel  since  'Robert  Elsmere.'" 

"Oh,  but  don't  you  see,"  exclaimed  Laura  Clyde, 
"that  it's  just  the  dark  hopelessness  of  it  all — the  wonder 
ful  tone-scheme  of  black  on  black — that  makes  it  such  an 
artistic  achievement?  It  reminded  me  when  I  read  it  of 
Prince  Rupert's  maniere  noire... the  book  is  etched,  not 
painted,  yet  one  feels  the  colour- values  so  intensely.  ..." 
[9] 


X  I N  G  U 

"Who  is  he?"  Mrs.  Leveret  whispered  to  her  neigh 
bour.  "Some  one  she's  met  abroad?" 

"The  wonderful  part  of  the  book,"  Mrs.  Ballinger 
conceded,  "is  that  it  may  be  looked  at  from  so  many 
points  of  view.  I  hear  that  as  a  study  of  determinism 
Professor  Lupton  ranks  it  with  'The  Data  of  Ethics.'" 

"I'm  told  that  Osric  Dane  spent  ten  years  in  prepara 
tory  studies  before  beginning  to  write  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Plinth.  "She  looks  up  everything — verifies  everything. 
It  has  always  been  my  principle,  as  you  know.  Nothing 
would  induce  me,  now,  to  put  aside  a  book  before  I'd 
finished  it,  just  because  I  can  buy  as  many  more  as  I 
want." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  'The  Wings  of  Death'?" 
Mrs.  Roby  abruptly  asked  her. 

It  was  the  kind  of  question  that  might  be  termed  out 
of  order,  and  the  ladies  glanced  at  each  other  as  though 
disclaiming  any  share  in  such  a  breach  of  discipline. 
They  all  knew  there  was  nothing  Mrs.  Plinth  so  much  dis 
liked  as  being  asked  her  opinion  of  a  book.  Books  were 
written  to  read;  if  one  read  them  what  more  could  be  ex 
pected  ?  To  be  questioned  in  detail  regarding  the  contents 
of  a  volume  seemed  to  her  as  great  an  outrage  as  being 
searched  for  smuggled  laces  at  the  Custom  House.  The 
club  had  always  respected  this  idiosyncrasy  of  Mrs. 
Plinth's.  Such  opinions  as  she  had  were  imposing  and 
substantial:  her  mind,  like  her  house,  was  furnished  with 
[10] 


XINGU 

monumental  "pieces"  that  were  not  meant  to  be  disar 
ranged;  and  it  was  one  of  the  unwritten  rules  of  the  Lunch 
Club  that,  within  her  own  province,  each  member's 
habits  of  thought  should  be  respected.  The  meeting 
therefore  closed  with  an  increased  sense,  on  the  part  of 
the  other  ladies,  of  Mrs.  Roby's  hopeless  unfitness  to  be 
one  of  them. 


n 


T\J"RS.  LEVERET,  on  the  eventful  day,  arrived  early 
at   Mrs.   Ballinger's,  her  volume  of  Appropriate 
Allusions  in  her  pocket. 

It  always  flustered  Mrs.  Leveret  to  be  late  at  the 
Lunch  Club:  she  liked  to  collect  her  thoughts  and  gather 
a  hint,  as  the  others  assembled,  of  the  turn  the  conver 
sation  was  likely  to  take.  To-day,  however,  she  felt  her 
self  completely  at  a  loss;  and  even  the  familiar  contact 
of  Appropriate  Allusions,  which  stuck  into  her  as  she  sat 
down,  failed  to  give  her  any  reassurance.  It  was  an  ad 
mirable  little  volume,  compiled  to  meet  all  the  social 
emergencies;  so  that,  whether  on  the  occasion  of  Anni 
versaries,  joyful  or  melancholy  (as  the  classification  ran), 
of  Banquets,  social  or  municipal,  or  of  Baptisms,  Church 
of  England  or  sectarian,  its  student  need  never  be  at  a 
loss  for  a  pertinent  reference.  Mrs.  Leveret,  though  she 
had  for  years  devoutly  conned  its  pages,  valued  it,  how- 
[11] 


XINGU 

ever,  rather  for  its  moral  support  than  for  its  practical 
services;  for  though  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room  she 
commanded  an  army  of  quotations,  these  invariably  de 
serted  her  at  the  critical  moment,  and  the  only  phrase 
she  retained — Canst  thou  draw  out  leviathan  with  a  hook  ? 
— was  one  she  had  never  yet  found  occasion  to  apply. 

To-day  she  felt  that  even  the  complete  mastery  of  the 
volume  would  hardly  have  insured  her  self-possession; 
for  she  thought  it  probable  that,  even  if  she  did,  in  some 
miraculous  way,  remember  an  Allusion,  it  would  be  only 
to  find  that  Osric  Dane  used  a  different  volume  (Mrs. 
Leveret  was  convinced  that  literary  people  always  carried 
them),  and  would  consequently  ndt  recognise  her  quota 
tions. 

Mrs.  Leveret's  sense  of  being  adrift  was  intensified  by 
the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Ballinger's  drawing-room.  To  a 
careless  eye  its  aspect  was  unchanged;  but  those  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Ballinger's  way  of  arranging  her  books  would 
instantly  have  detected  the  marks  of  recent  perturba 
tion.  Mrs.  Ballinger's  province,  as  a  member  of  the 
Lunch  Club,  was  the  Book  of  the  Day.  On  that,  what 
ever  it  was,  from  a  novel  to  a  treatise  on  experimental 
psychology,  she  was  confidently,  authoritatively  "up." 
What  became  of  last  year's  books,  or  last  week's  even; 
what  she  did  with  the  "subjects"  she  had  previously 
professed  with  equal  authority;  no  one  had  ever  yet  dis 
covered.  Her  mind  was  an  hotel  where  facts  came  and 


XINGU 

went  like  transient  lodgers,  without  leaving  their  address 
behind,  and  frequently  without  paying  for  their  board. 
It  was  Mrs.  Ballinger's  boast  that  she  was  "abreast  with 
the  Thought  of  the  Day,"  and  her  pride  that  this  ad 
vanced  position  should  be  expressed  by  the  books  on  her 
table.  These  volumes,  frequently  renewed,  and  almost 
always  damp  from  the  press,  bore  names  generally  un 
familiar  to  Mrs.  Leveret,  and  giving  her,  as  she  furtively 

"^  Q  5" 

scanned  them,  a  disheartening  glimpse  of  new  fiolsfo  of 
knowledge  to  be  breathlessly  traversed  in  Mrs.  Ballin 
ger's  wake.  But  to-day  a  number  of  maturer-looking  vol 
umes  were  adroitly  mingled  with  the  primeurs  of  the 
press — Karl  Marx  jostled  Professor  Bergson,  and  the 
"Confessions  of  St.  Augustine"  lay  beside  the  last  work 
on  "Mendelism";  so  that  even  to  Mrs.  Leveret's  fluttered 
perceptions  it  was  clear  t'hat  Mrs.  Ballinger  didn't  in  the 
least  know  what  Osric  Dane  was  likely  to  talk  about, 
and  had  taken  measures  to  be  prepared  for  anything. 
Mrs.  Leveret  felt  like  a  passenger  on  an  ocean  steamer 
who  is  told  that  there  is  no  immediate  danger,  but  that 
she  had  better  put  on  her  life-belt. 

It  was  a  relief  to  be  roused  from  these  forebodings  by 
Miss  Van  Vluyck's  arrival. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  the  new-comer  briskly  asked  her 
hostess,  "what  subjects  are  we  to  discuss  to-day?" 

Mrs.  Ballinger  was  furtively  replacing  a  volume  of 
Wordsworth  by  a  copy  of  Verlaine.  "I  hardly  know,"  she 
[13] 


XINGU 

said,  somewhat  nervously.  "Perhaps  we  had  better  leave 
that  to  circumstances." 

"Circumstances?"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck  drily.  "That 
means,  I  suppose,  that  Laura  Glyde  will  take  the  floor 
as  usual,  and  we  shall  be  deluged  with  literature." 

Philanthropy  and  statistics  were  Miss  Van  Vluyck's 
province,  and  she  resented  any  tendency  to  divert  their 
guest's  attention  from  these  topics. 

Mrs.  Plinth  at  this  moment  appeared. 

"Literature?"  she  protested  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 
"But  this  is  perfectly  unexpected.  I  understood  we  were 
to  talk  of  Osric  Dane's  novel." 

Mrs.  Ballinger  winced  at  the  discrimination,  but  let  it 
pass.  "We  can  hardly  make  that  our  chief  subject — at 
least  not  too  intentionally,"  she  suggested.  "Of  course  we 
can  let  our  talk  drift  in  that  direction;  but  we  ought  to 
have  some  other  topic  as  an  introduction,  and  that  is 
what  I  wanted  to  consult  you  about.  The  fact  is,  we  know 
so  little  of  Osric  Dane's  tastes  and  interests  that  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  make  any  special  preparation." 

"It  may  be  difficult,"  said  Mrs.  Plinth  with  decision, 
"but  it  is  necessary.  I  know  what  that  happy-go-lucky 
principle  leads  to.  As  I  told  one  of  my  nieces  the  other 
day,  there  are  certain  emergencies  for  which  a  lady  should 
always  be  prepared.  It's  in  shocking  taste  to  wear  colours 
when  one  pays  a  visit  of  condolence,  or  a  last  year's  dress 
when  there  are  reports  that  one's  husband  is  on  the  wrong 
[U] 


X I N  G  U 

side  of  the  market;  and  so  it  is  with  conversation.  All  I 
ask  is  that  I  should  know  beforehand  what  is  to  be  talked 
about;  then  I  feel  sure  of  being  able  to  say  the  proper 
thing." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  Mrs.  Ballinger  assented; 
"but—" 

And  at  that  instant,  heralded  by  the  fluttered  parlour 
maid,  Osric  Dane  appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

Mrs.  Leveret  told  her  sister  afterward  that  she  had 
known  at  a  glance  what  was  coming.  She  saw  that  Osric 
Dane  was  not  going  to  meet  them  half  way.  That  dis 
tinguished  personage  had  indeed  entered  with  an  air  of 
compulsion  not  calculated  to  promote  the  easy  exercise 
of  hospitality.  She  looked  as  though  she  were  about  to 
be  photographed  for  a  new  edition  of  her  books. 

The  desire  to  propitiate  a  divinity  is  generally  in  in 
verse  ratio  to  its  responsiveness,  and  the  sense  of  dis 
couragement  produced  by  Osric  Dane's  entrance  visibly 
increased  the  Lunch  Club's  eagerness  to  please  her.  Any 
lingering  idea  that  she  might  consider  herself  under  an 
obligation  to  her  entertainers  was  at  once  dispelled  by 
her  manner:  as  Mrs.  Leveret  said  afterward  to  her  sister, 
she  had  a  way  of  looking  at  you  that  made  you  feel  as 
if  there  was  something  wrong  with  your  hat.  This  evi 
dence  of  greatness  produced  such  an  immediate  impres 
sion  on  the  ladies  that  a  shudder  of  awe  ran  through  them 
when  Mrs.  Roby,  as  their  hostess  led  the  great  personage 
[15] 


XINGU 

into   the   dining-room,   turned    back   to   whisper   to   the 
others:  "What  a  brute  she  is !" 

The  hour  about  the  table  did  not  tend  to  revise  this 
verdict.  It  was  passed  by  Osric  Dane  in  the  silent  deglu 
tition  of  Mrs.  Ballinger's  menu,  and  by  the  members  of 
the  club  in  the  emission  of  tentative  platitudes  which 
their  guest  seemed  to  swallow  as  perfunctorily  as  the  suc 
cessive  courses  of  the  luncheon. 

Mrs.  Ballinger's  reluctance  to  fix  a  topic  had  thrown 
the  club  into  a  mental  disarray  which  increased  with  the 
return  to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  actual  business  of 
discussion  was  to  open.  Each  lady  waited  for  the  other 
to  speak;  and  there  was  a  general  shock  of  disappointment 
when  their  hostess  opened  the  conversation  by  the  pain 
fully  commonplace  enquiry:  "Is  this  your  first  visit  to 
Hillbridge?" 

Even  Mrs.  Leveret  was  conscious  that  this  was  a  bad 
beginning;  and  a  vague  impulse  of  deprecation  made  Miss 
Clyde  interject:  "It  is  a  very  small  place  indeed." 

Mrs.  Plinth  bristled.  "We  have  a  great  many  represen 
tative  people,"  she  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  speaks 
for  her  order. 

Osric  Dane  turned  to  her.  "What  do  they  represent?" 
she  asked. 

Mrs.  Plinth's  constitutional  dislike  to  being  questioned 
was  intensified  by  her  sense  of  unpreparedness ;  and  her 
reproachful  glance  passed  the  question  on  to  Mrs.  Bal- 
linger. 

[101 


XINGU 

"Why,"  said  that  lady,  glancing  in  turn  at  the  other 
members,  "as  a  community  I  hope  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  we  stand  for  culture." 

"For  art—"  Miss  Glyde  interjected. 

"For  art  and  literature,"  Mrs.  Ballinger  emended. 

"And  for  sociology,  I  trust,"  snapped  Miss  Van  Vluyck. 

"We  have  a  standard,"  said  Mrs.  Plinth,  feeling  her 
self  suddenly  secure  on  the  vast  expanse  of  a  generalisa 
tion;  and  Mrs.  Leveret,  thinking  there  must  be  room  for 
more  than  one  on  so  broad  a  statement,  took  courage  to 
murmur:  "Oh,  certainly;  we  have  a  standard." 

"The  object  of  our  little  club,"  Mrs.  Ballinger  con 
tinued,  "is  to  concentrate  the  highest  tendencies  of  Hill- 
bridge — to  centralise  and  focus  its  intellectual  effort." 

This  was  felt  to  be  so  happy  that  the  ladies  drew  an 
almost  audible  breath  of  relief. 

"We  aspire,"  the  President  went  on,  "to  be  in  touch 
with  whatever  is  highest  in  art,  literature  and  ethics." 

Osric  Dane  again  turned  to  her.  "What  ethics?"  she 
asked. 

A  tremor  of  apprehension  encircled  the  room.  None 
of  the  ladies  required  any  preparation  to  pronounce  on 
a  question  of  morals;  but  when  they  were  called  ethics 
it  was  different.  The  club,  when  fresh  from  the  "Encyclo 
paedia  Britannica,"  the  "Reader's  Handbook"  or  Smith's 
"Classical  Dictionary,"  could  deal  confidently  with  any 
subject;  but  when  taken  unawares  it  had  been  known  to 
define  agnosticism  as  a  heresy  of  the  Early  Church  and 
[17] 


XINGU 

Professor  Froude  as  a  distinguished  histologist;  and  such 
minor  members  as  Mrs.  Leveret  still  secretly  regarded 
ethics  as  something  vaguely  pagan. 

Even  to  Mrs.  Ballinger,  Osric  Dane's  question  was  un 
settling,  and  there  was  a  general  sense  of  gratitude  when 
Laura  Glyde  leaned  forward  to  say,  with  her  most  sym 
pathetic  accent:  "You  must  excuse  us,  Mrs.  Dane,  for 
not  being  able,  just  at  present,  to  talk  of  anything  but 
'The  Wings  of  Death.'" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck,  with  a  sudden  resolve 
to  carry  the  war  into  the  enemy's  camp.  "We  are  so 
anxious  to  know  the  exact  purpose  you  had  in  mind  in 
writing  your  wonderful  book." 

"You  will  find,"  Mrs.  Plinth  interposed,  "that  we  are 
not  superficial  readers." 

"We  are  eager  to  hear  from  you,"  Miss  Van  Vluyck 
•  ontinued,  "if  the  pessimistic  tendency  of  the  book  is 
an  expression  of  your  own  convictions  or — " 

"Or  merely,"  Miss  Glyde  thrust  in,  "a  sombre  back 
ground  brushed  in  to  throw  your  figures  into  more  vivid 
relief.  Are  you  not  primarily  plastic?" 

"/  have  always  maintained,"  Mrs.  Ballinger  inter 
posed,  "that  you  represent  the  purely  objective  method — " 

Osric  Dane  helped  herself  critically  to  coffee.  "How  do 
you  define  objective?"  she  then  enquired. 

There  was  a  flurried  pause  before  Laura  Glyde  intensely 
murmured:  "In  reading  you  we  don't  define,  we  feel." 
[18] 


XINGU 

Osric  Dane  smiled.  "The  cerebellum,"  she  remarked, 
"is  not  infrequently  the  seat  of  the  literary  emotions." \ 
And  she  took  a  second  lump  of  sugar. 

The  sting  that  this  remark  was  vaguely  felt  to  conceal 
was  almost  neutralised  by  the  satisfaction  of  being  ad 
dressed  in  such  technical  language. 

"Ah,  the  cerebellum,"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck  com 
placently.  "The  club  took  a  course  in  psychology  last 
winter." 

"Which  psychology?"  asked  Osric  Dane. 

There  was  an  agonising  pause,  during  which  each  mem 
ber  of  the  club  secretly  deplored  the  distressing  ineffi 
ciency  of  the  others.  Only  Mrs.  Roby  went  on  placidly 
sipping  her  chartreuse.  At  last  Mrs.  Ballinger  said,  with 
an  attempt  at  a  high  tone:  "Well,  really,  you  know,  it 
was  last  year  that  we  took  psychology,  and  this  winter 
we  have  been  so  absorbed  in — " 

She  broke  off,  nervously  trying  to  recall  some  of  the 
club's  discussions;  but  her  faculties  seemed  to  be  paralysed 
by  the  petrifying  stare  of  Osric  Dane.  What  had  the  club 
been  absorbed  in?  Mrs.  Ballinger,  with  a  vague  purpose 
of  gaining  time,  repeated  slowly:  "We've  been  so  intensely 
absorbed  in — " 

Mrs.  Roby  put  down  her  liqueur  glass  and  drew  near 
the  group  with  a  smile. 

"In  Xingu?"  she  gently  prompted. 

A  thrill  ran   through   the   other   members.   They  ex- 
[191 


XINGU 

changed  confused  glances,  and  then,  with  one  accord, 
turned  a  gaze  of  mingled  relief  and  interrogation  on  their 
rescuer.  The  expression  of  each  denoted  a  different  phase 
of  the  same  emotion.  Mrs.  Plinth  was  the  first  to  compose 
her  features  to  an  air  of  reassurance:  after  a  moment's 
hasty  adjustment  her  look  almost  implied  that  it  was  she 
who  had  given  the  word  to  Mrs.  Ballinger. 

"Xingu,  of  course!"  exclaimed  the  latter  with  her  ac 
customed  promptness,  while  Miss  Van  Vluyck  and  Laura 
Glyde  seemed  to  be  plumbing  the  depths  of  memory, 
and  Mrs.  Leveret,  feeling  apprehensively  for  Appropriate 
Allusions,  was  somehow  reassured  by  the  uncomfortable 
pressure  of  its  bulk  against  her  person. 

Osric  Dane's  change  of  countenance  was  no  less  strik 
ing  than  that  of  her  entertainers.  She  too  put  down  her 
coffee-cup,  but  with  a  look  of  distinct  annoyance;  she  too 
wore,  for  a  brief  moment,  what  Mrs.  Roby  afterward 
described  as  the  look  of  feeling  for  something  in  the  back 
of  her  head;  and  before  she  could  dissemble  these  mo 
mentary  signs  of  weakness,  Mrs.  Roby,  turning  to  her 
with  a  deferential  smile,  had  said:  "And  we've  been  so 
hoping  that  to-day  you  would  tell  us  just  what  you  think 
of  it." 

Osric  Dane  received  the  homage  of  the  smile  as  a 
matter  of  course;  but  the  accompanying  question  obvi 
ously  embarrassed  her,  and  it  became  clear  to  her  ob 
servers  that  she  was  not  quick  at  shifting  her  facial 
[20] 


XINGU 

scenery.  It  was  as  though  her  countenance  had  so  long 
been  set  in  an  expression  of  unchallenged  superiority  that 
the  muscles  had  stiffened,  and  refused  to  obey  her  orders. 

"Xingu — "  she  said,  as  if  seeking  in  her  turn  to  gain 
time. 

Mrs.  Roby  continued  to  press  her.  "Knowing  how  en 
grossing  the  subject  is,  you  will  understand  how  it  hap 
pens  that  the  club  has  let  everything  else  go  to  the  wall 
for  the  moment.  Since  we  took  up  Xingu  I  might  almost 
say — were  it  not  for  your  books — that  nothing  else  seems 
to  us  worth  remembering." 

Osric  Dane's  stern  features  were  darkened  rather  than 
lit  up  by  an  uneasy  smile.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you 
make  one  exception,"  she  gave  out  between  narrowed  lips. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Roby  said  prettily;  "but  as  you 
have  shown  us  that — so  very  naturally ! — you  don't  care 
to  talk  of  your  own  things,  we  really  can't  let  you  off 
from  telling  us  exactly  what  you  think  about  Xingu; 
especially,"  she  added,  with  a  still  more  persuasive  smile, 
"as  some  people  say  that  one  of  your  last  books  was 
saturated  with  it." 

It  was  an  it,  then — the  assurance  sped  like  fire  through 
the  parched  minds  of  the  other  members.  In  their  eager 
ness  to  gain  the  least  little  clue  to  Xingu  they  almost 
forgot  the  joy  of  assisting  at  the  discomfiture  of  Mrs. 
Dane. 

The  latter  reddened  nervously  under  her  antagonist's 
[21] 


XINGU 

challenge.  "May  I  ask,"  she  faltered  out,  "to  which  of 
my  books  you  refer?" 

Mrs.  Roby  did  not  falter.  "That's  just  what  I  want 
you  to  tell  us;  because,  though  I  was  present,  I  didn't 
actually  take  part." 

"Present  at  what?"  Mrs.  Dane  took  her  up;  and  for 
an  instant  the  trembling  members  of  the  Lunch  Club 
thought  that  the  champion  Providence  had  raised  up  for 
them  had  lost  a  point.  But  Mrs.  Roby  explained  herself 
gaily:  "At  the  discussion,  of  course.  And  so  we're  dread 
fully  anxious  to  know  just  how  it  was  that  you  went  into 
the  Xingu." 

There  was  a  portentous  pause,  a  silence  so  big  with  in 
calculable  dangers  that  the  members  with  one  accord 
checked  the  words  on  their  lips,  like  soldiers  dropping 
their  arms  to  watch  a  single  combat  between  their  lead 
ers.  Then  Mrs.  Dane  gave  expression  to  their  inmost 
dread  by  saying  sharply:  "Ah — you  say  the  Xingu,  do 
you?" 

Mrs.  Roby  smiled  undauntedly.  "It  is  a  shade  pedantic, 
isn't  it?  Personally,  I  always  drop  the  article;  but  I  don't 
know  how  the  other  members  feel  about  it." 

The  other  members  looked  as  though  they  would  will 
ingly  have  dispensed  with  this  appeal  to  their  opinion, 
and  Mrs.  Roby,  after  a  bright  glance  about  the  group, 
went  on:  "They  probably  think,  as  I  do,  that  nothing 
really  matters  except  the  thing  itself — except  Xingu." 
[22] 


X I  N  G  U 

No  immediate  reply  seemed  to  occur  to  Mrs.  Dane, 
and  Mrs.  Ballinger  gathered  courage  to  say:  "Surely  every 
one  must  feel  that  about  Xingu." 

Mrs.  Plinth  came  to  her  support  with  a  heavy  murmur 
of  assent,  and  Laura  Glyde  sighed  out  emotionally:  "I 
have  known  cases  where  it  has  changed  a  whole  life." 

"It  has  done  me  worlds  of  good,"  Mrs.  Leveret  inter 
jected,  seeming  to  herself  to  remember  that  she  had 
either  taken  it  or  read  it  the  winter  before. 

"Of  course,"  Mrs.  Roby  admitted,  "the  difficulty  is 
that  one  must  give  up  so  much  time  to  it.  It's  very  long." 

"I  can't  imagine,"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck,  "grudging 
the  time  given  to  such  a  subject." 

"And  deep  in  places,"  Mrs.  Roby  pursued;  (so  then  it 
was  a  book!)  "And  it  isn't  easy  to  skip." 

"I  never  skip,"  said  Mrs.  Plinth  dogmatically. 

"Ah,  it's  dangerous  to,  in  Xingu.  Even  at  the  start 
there  are  places  where  one  can't.  One  must  just  wade 
through." 

"I  should  hardly  call  it  wading,"  said  Mrs.  Ballinger 
sarcastically. 

Mrs.  Roby  sent  her  a  look  of  interest.  "Ah — you  always 
found  it  went  swimmingly?" 

Mrs.  Ballinger  hesitated.  "Of  course  there  are  difficult 
passages,"  she  conceded. 

"Yes;  some  are  not  at  all  clear — even,"  Mrs.  Roby 
added,  "if  one  is  familiar  with  the  original." 
[23] 


XINGU 

"As  I  suppose  you  are?"  Osric  Dane  interposed,  sud 
denly  fixing  her  with  a  look  of  challenge. 

Mrs.  Roby  met  it  by  a  deprecating  gesture.  "Oh,  it's 
really  not  difficult  up  to  a  certain  point;  though  some  of 
the  branches  are  very  little  known,  and  it's  almost  im 
possible  to  get  at  the  source." 

"Have  you  ever  tried?"  Mrs.  Plinth  enquired,  still 
distrustful  of  Mrs.  Roby's  thoroughness. 

Mrs.  Roby  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  she  replied 
with  lowered  lids:  "No — but  a  friend  of  mine  did;  a  very 
brilliant  man;  and  he  told  me  it  was  best  for  women — not 
to...." 

A  shudder  ran  around  the  room.  Mrs.  Leveret  coughed 
so  that  the  parlour-maid,  who  was  handing  the  cigarettes, 
should  not  hear;  Miss  Van  Vluyck's  face  took  on  a  nause 
ated  expression,  and  Mrs.  Plinth  looked  as  if  she  were 
passing  some  one  she  did  not  care  to  bow  to.  But  the  most 
remarkable  result  of  Mrs.  Roby's  words  was  the  effect 
they  produced  on  the  Lunch  Club's  distinguished  guest. 
Osric  Dane's  impassive  features  suddenly  softened  to  an 
expression  of  the  warmest  human  sympathy,  and  edging 
her  chair  toward  Mrs.  Roby's  she  asked:  "Did  he  really? 
And — did  you  find  he  was  right?" 

Mrs.  Ballinger,  in  whom  annoyance  at  Mrs.  Roby's 

unwonted  assumption  of  prominence  was  beginning  to 

displace  gratitude  for  the  aid  she  had  rendered,  could 

not  consent  to  her  being  allowed,  by  such  dubious  means, 

[24] 


XINGU 

to  monopolise  the  attention  of  their  guest.  If  Osric  Dane 
had  not  enough  self-respect  to  resent  Mrs.  Roby's  flip 
pancy,  at  least  the  Lunch  Club  would  do  so  in  the  person 
of  its  President. 

Mrs.  Ballinger  laid  her  hand  on  Mrs.  Roby's  arm. 
"We  must  not  forget,"  she  said  with  a  frigid  amiability, 
"that  absorbing  as  Xingu  is  to  us,  it  may  be  less  inter 
esting  to — " 

"Oh,  no,  on  the  contrary,  I  assure  you,"  Osric  Dane 
intervened. 

" — to  others,"  Mrs.  Ballinger  finished  firmly;  "and  we 
must  not  allow  our  little  meeting  to  end  without  per 
suading  Mrs.  Dane  to  say  a  few  words  to  us  on  a  subject 
which,  to-day,  is  much  more  present  in  all  our  thoughts. 
I  refer,  of  course,  to  'The  Wings  of  Death.'" 

The  other  members,  animated  by  various  degrees  of 
the  same  sentiment,  and  encouraged  by  the  humanised 
mien  of  their  redoubtable  guest,  repeated  after  Mrs.  Bal 
linger:  "Oh,  yes,  you  really  must  talk  to  us  a  little  about 
your  book." 

Osric  Dane's  expression  became  as  bored,  though  not 
as  haughty,  as  when  her  work  had  been  previously  men 
tioned.  But  before  she  could  respond  to  Mrs.  Ballinger's 
request,  Mrs.  Roby  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and  was 
pulling  down  her  veil  over  her  frivolous  nose. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  advancing  toward  her  hostess 
with  outstretched  hand,  "but  before  Mrs.  Dane  begins 
[25] 


X I  N  G  U 

I  think  I'd  better  run  away.  Unluckily,  as  you  know,  I 
haven't  read  her  books,  so  I  should  be  at  a  terrible  dis 
advantage  among  you  all,  and  besides,  I've  an  engage 
ment  to  play  bridge." 

If  Mrs.  Roby  had  simply  pleaded  her  ignorance  of  Osric 
Dane's  works  as  a  reason  for  withdrawing,  the  Luncli 
Club,  in  view  of  her  recent  prowess,  might  have  approved 
such  evidence  of  discretion;  but  to  couple  this  excuse  with 
the  brazen  announcement  that  she  was  foregoing  the 
privilege  for  the  purpose  of  joining  a  bridge-party  was 
only  one  more  instance  of  her  deplorable  lack  of  dis 
crimination. 

The  ladies  were  disposed,  however,  to  feel  that  her  de 
parture — now  that  she  had  performed  the  sole  service 
she  was  ever  likely  to  render  them — would  probably  make 
for  greater  order  and  dignity  in  the  impending  discussion, 
besides  relieving  them  of  the  sense  of  self-distrust  which 
her  presence  always  mysteriously  produced.  Mrs.  Bal- 
linger  therefore  restricted  herself  to  a  formal  murmur  of 
regret,  and  the  other  members  were  just  grouping  them 
selves  comfortably  about  Osric  Dane  when  the  latter,  to 
their  dismay,  started  up  from  the  sofa  on  which  she  had 
been  seated. 

"Oh  wait — do  wait,  and  I'll  go  with  you!"  she  called 
out  to  Mrs.  Roby;  and,  seizing  the  hands  of  the  discon 
certed  members,  she  administered  a  series  of  farewell 
pressures  with  the  mechanical  haste  of  a  railway-conductor 
punching  tickets. 

[26] 


X I N  G_U 

"I'm  so  sorry — I'd  quite  forgotten — "  she  flung  back 
at  them  from  the  threshold;  and  as  she  joined  Mrs.  Roby, 
who  had  turned  in  surprise  at  her  appeal,  the  other  ladies 
had  the  mortification  of  hearing  her  say,  in  a  voice  which 
she  did  not  take  the  pains  to  lower:  "If  you'll  let  me  walk 
a  little  way  with  you,  I  should  so  like  to  ask  you  a  few 
more  questions  about  Xingu..." 


Ill 


THE  incident  had  been  so  rapid  that  the  door  closed 
on  the  departing  pair  before  the  other  members 
had  time  to  understand  what  was  happening.  Then  a 
sense  of  the  indignity  put  upon  them  by  Osric  Dane's 
unceremonious  desertion  began  to  contend  with  the  con 
fused  feeling  that  they  had  been  cheated  out  of  their  due 
without  exactly  knowing  how  or  why. 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  Mrs.  Ballinger,  with 
a  perfunctory  hand,  rearranged  the  skilfully  grouped 
literature  at  which  her  distinguished  guest  had  not  so 
much  as  glanced;  then  Miss  Van  Vluyck  tartly  pro 
nounced:  "Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  consider  Osric  Dane's 
departure  a  great  loss." 

This  confession  crystallised  the  resentment  of  the 
other  members,  and  Mrs.  Leveret  exclaimed:  "I  do  be 
lieve  she  came  on  purpose  to  be  nasty!" 

It  was  Mrs.  Plinth's  private  opinion  that  Osric  Dane's 
attitude  toward  the  Lunch  Club  might  have  been  very 
[27J 


XINGU 

different  had  it  welcomed  her  in  the  majestic  setting  of 
the  Plinth  drawing-rooms;  but  not  liking  to  reflect  on 
the  inadequacy  of  Mrs.  Ballinger's  establishment  she 
sought  a  roundabout  satisfaction  in  depreciating  her  lack 
of  foresight. 

"I  said  from  the  first  that  we  ought  to  have  had  a 
subject  ready.  It's,  jwhat  always  happens  when  you're 
unprepared.  Now  if  we'd  only  got  up  Xingu — " 

The  slowness  of  Mrs.  Plinth's  mental  processes  was 
always  allowed  for  by  the  club;  but  this  instance  of  it 
was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Ballinger's  equanimity. 

"Xingu!"  she  scoffed.  "Why,  it  was  the  fact  of  our 
knowing  so  much  more  about  it  than  she  did — unpre 
pared  though  we  were — that  made  Osric  Dane  so  furious. 
I  should  have  thought  that  was  plain  enough  to  every 
body!" 

This  retort  impressed  even  Mrs.  Plinth,  and  Laura 
Glyde,  moved  by  an  impulse  of  generosity,  said:  "Yes, 
we  really  ought  to  be  grateful  to  Mrs.  Roby  for  intro 
ducing  the  topic.  It  may  have  made  Osric  Dane  furious, 
but  at  least  it  made  her  civil." 

"I  am  glad  we  were  able  to  show  her,"  added  Miss 
Van  Vluyck,  "that  a  broad  and  up-to-date  culture  is  not 
confined  to  the  great  intellectual  centres." 

This  increased  the  satisfaction  of  the  other  members, 
and  they  began  to  forget  their  wrath  against  Osric  Dane 
in  the  pleasure  of  having  contributed  to  her  discomfiture. 
[28] 


XINGU 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  thoughtfully  rubbed  her  spectacles. 
"What  surprised  me  most,"  she  continued,  "was  that 
Fanny  Roby  should  be  so  up  on  Xingu." 

This  remark  threw  a  slight  chill  on  the  company,  but 
Mrs.  Ballinger  said  with  an  air  of  indulgent  irony:  "Mrs. 
Roby  always  has  the  knack  of  making  a  little  go  a  long 
way;  still,  we  certainly  owe  her  a  debt  for  happening  to 
remember  that  she'd  heard  of  Xingu."  And  this  was  felt 
by  the  other  members  to  be  a  graceful  way  of  cancelling 
once  for  all  the  club's  obligation  to  Mrs.  Roby. 

Even  Mrs.  Leveret  took  courage  to  speed  a  timid  shaft 
of  irony.  "I  fancy  Osric  Dane  hardly  expected  to  take  a 
lesson  in  Xingu  at  Hill  bridge !" 

Mrs.  Ballinger  smiled.  "When  she  asked  me  what  we 
represented — do  you  remember? — I  wish  I'd  simply  said 
we  represented  Xingu !" 

All  the  ladies  laughed  appreciatively  at  this  sally,  ex 
cept  Mrs.  Plinth,  who  said,  after  a  moment's  delibera 
tion:  "I'm  not  sure  it  would  have  been  wise  to  do  so." 

Mrs.  Ballinger,  who  was  already  beginning  to  feel  as 
if  she  had  launched  at  Osric  Dane  the  retort  which  had 
just  occurred  to  her,  turned  ironically  on  Mrs.  Plinth. 
"May  I  ask  why?"  she  enquired. 

Mrs.  Plinth  looked  grave.  "Surely,"  she  said,  "I  under 
stood  from  Mrs.  Roby  herself  that  the  subject  was  one 
it  was  as  wrell  not  to  go  into  too  deeply?" 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  rejoined  with  precision:  "I  think 
[29] 


XINGU 

that  applied  only  to  an  investigation  of  the  origin  of  the 
— of  the — ";  and  suddenly  she  found  that  her  usually 
accurate  memory  had  failed  her.  "It's  a  part  of  the  sub 
ject  I  never  studied  myself,"  she  concluded. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Ballinger. 

Laura  Glyde  bent  toward  them  with  widened  eyes. 
"And  yet  it  seems — doesn't  it? — the  part  that  is  fullest 
of  an  esoteric  fascination?" 

"I  don't  know  on  what  you  base  that,"  said  Miss  Van 
Vluyck  argumentatively. 

"Well,  didn't  you  notice  how  intensely  interested  Osric 
Dane  became  as  soon  as  she  heard  what  the  brilliant  for 
eigner — he  was  a  foreigner,  wasn't  he? — had  told  Mrs. 
Roby  about  the  origin — the  origin  of  the  rite — or  what 
ever  you  call  it?" 

Mrs.  Plinth  looked  disapproving,  and  Mrs.  Ballinger 
visibly  wavered.  Then  she  said:  "It  may  not  be  desirable 
to  touch  on  the — on  that  part  of  the  subject  in  general 
conversation;  but,  from  the  importance  it  evidently  has 
to  a  woman  of  Osric  Dane's  distinction,  I  feel  as  if  we 
ought  not  to  be  afraid  to  discuss  it  among  ourselves — 
without  gloves — though  with  closed  doors,  if  necessary." 

"I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,"  Miss  Van  Vluyck  came 
briskly  to  her  support;  "on  condition,  that  is,  that  all 
grossness  of  language  is  avoided." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  we  shall  understand  without  that," 
Mrs.  Leveret  tittered;  and  Laura  Glyde  added  signifi- 
[30] 


XINGU 

cantly:  "I  fancy  we  can  read  between  the  lines,"  while 
Mrs.  Ballinger  rose  to  assure  herself  that  the  doors  were 
really  closed. 

Mrs.  Plinth  had  not  yet  given  her  adhesion.  "I  hardly 
see,"  she  began,  "what  benefit  is  to  be  derived  from  in 
vestigating  such  peculiar  customs — " 

But  Mrs.  Ballinger 's  patience  had  reached  the  extreme 
limit  of  tension.  "This  at  least,"  she  returned;  "that  we 
shall  not  be  placed  again  in  the  humiliating  position  of 
finding  ourselves  less  up  on  our  own  subjects  than  Fanny 
Roby!" 

Even  to  Mrs.  Plinth  this  argument  was  conclusive. 
She  peered  furtively  about  the  room  and  lowered  her  com 
manding  tones  to  ask:  "Have  you  got  a  copy?" 

"A — a  copy?"  stammered  Mrs.  Ballinger.  She  was 
aware  that  the  other  members  were  looking  at  her  ex 
pectantly,  and  that  this  answer  was  inadequate,  so  she 
supported  it  by  asking  another  question.  "A  copy  of 
what?" 

Her  companions  bent  their  expectant  gaze  on  Mrs. 
Plinth,  who,  in  turn,  appeared  less  sure  of  herself  than 
usual.  "Why,  of — of — the  book,"  she  explained. 

"What  book?"  snapped  Miss  Van  Vluyck,  almost  as 
sharply  as  Osric  Dane. 

Mrs.  Ballinger  looked  at  Laura  Glyde,  whose  eyes  were 
interrogatively  fixed  on  Mrs.  Leveret.  The  fact  of  being 
deferred  to  was  so  new  to  the  latter  that  it  filled  her  with 
[  31  1 


XINGU 

an  insane  temerity.  "Why,  Xingu,  of  course!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

A  profound  silence  followed  this  challenge  to  the  re 
sources  of  Mrs.  Ballinger's  library,  and  the  latter,  after 
glancing  nervously  toward  the  Books  of  the  Day,  returned 
with  dignity:  "It's  not  a  thing  one  cares  to  leave  about." 

"I  should  think  not  /"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Plinth. 

"It  is  a  book,  then?"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck. 

This  again  threw  the  company  into  disarray,  and  Mrs. 
Ballinger,  with  an  impatient  sigh,  rejoined:  "Why — there 
is  a  book — naturally " 

"Then  why  did  Miss  Glyde  call  it  a  religion?" 

Laura  Glyde  started  up.  "A  religion?  I  never — 

"Yes,  you  did,"  Miss  Van  Vluyck  insisted;  "you  spoke 
of  rites;  and  Mrs.  Plinth  said  it  was  a  custom." 

Miss  Glyde  was  evidently  making  a  desperate  effort 
to  recall  her  statement;  but  accuracy  of  detail  was  not 
her  strongest  point.  At  length  she  began  in  a  deep  mur 
mur:  "Surely  they  used  to  do  something  of  the  kind  at 
the  Eleusinian  mysteries — " 

"Oh — "  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck,  on  the  verge  of  disap 
proval;  and  Mrs.  Plinth  protested:  "I  understood  there 
was  to  be  no  indelicacy!" 

Mrs.  Ballinger  could  not  control  her  irritation.  "Really, 
it  is  too  bad  that  we  should  not  be  able  to  talk  the  matter 
over  quietly  among  ourselves.  Personally,  I  think  that  if 
one  goes  into  Xingu  at  all — " 
[32] 


XINGU 

"Oh,  so  do  I!"  cried  Miss  Clyde. 

"And  I  don't  see  how  one  can  avoid  doing  so,  if  one 
wishes  to  keep  up  with  the  Thought  of  the  Day — 

Mrs.  Leveret  uttered  an  exclamation  of  relief.  "There 
—that's  it!"  she  interposed. 

"What's  it?"  the  President  took  her  up. 

"Why — it's  a — a  Thought:  I  mean  a  philosophy." 

This  seemed  to  bring  a  certain  relief  to  Mrs.  Ballinger 
and  Laura  Glyde,  but  Miss  Van  Vluyck  said:  "Excuse  me 
if  I  tell  you  that  you're  all  mistaken.  Xingu  happens  to 
be  a  language." 

"A  language!"  the  Lunch  Club  cried. 

"Certainly.  Don't  you  remember  Fanny  Roby's  say 
ing  that  there  were  several  branches,  and  that  some  were 
hard  to  trace?  What  could  that  apply  to  but  dia 
lects?" 

Mrs.  Ballinger  could  no  longer  restrain  a  contemptuous 
laugh.  "Really,  if  the  Lunch  Club  has  reached  such  a 
pass  that  it  has  to  go  to  Fanny  Roby  for  instruction  on  a 
subject  like  Xingu,  it  had  almost  better  cease  to  exist!" 

"It's  really  her  fault  for  not  being  clearer,"  Laura 
Glyde  put  in. 

"Oh,  clearness  and  Fanny  Roby!"  Mrs.  Ballinger 
shrugged.  "I  daresay  we  shall  find  she  was  mistaken  on 
almost  every  point." 

"Why  not  look  it  up?"  said  Mrs.  Plinth. 

As  a  rule  this  recurrent  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Plinth's  was 
[33] 


XINGU 

ignored  in  the  heat  of  discussion,  and  only  resorted  to 
afterward  in  the  privacy  of  each  member's  home.  But 
on  the  present  occasion  the  desire  to  ascribe  their  own 
confusion  of  thought  to  the  vague  and  contradictory  na 
ture  of  Mrs.  Roby's  statements  caused  the  members  of 
the  Lunch  Club  to  utter  a  collective  demand  for  a  book 
of  reference. 

At  this  point  the  production  of  her  treasured  volume 
gave  Mrs.  Leveret,  for  a  moment,  the  unusual  experience 
of  occupying  the  centre  front;  but  she  was  not  able  to 
hold  it  long,  for  Appropriate  Allusions  contained  no  men 
tion  of  Xingu. 

"Oh,  that's  not  the  kind  of  thing  we  want !"  exclaimed 
Miss  Van  Vluyck.  She  cast  a  disparaging  glance  over 
Mrs.  Ballinger's  assortment  of  literature,  and  added  im 
patiently:  "Haven't  you  any  useful  books?" 

"Of  course  I  have,"  replied  Mrs.  Ballinger  indignantly; 
"I  keep  them  in  my  husband's  dressing-room." 

From  this  region,  after  some  difficulty  and  delay,  the 
parlour-maid  produced  the  W-Z  volume  of  an  Encyclo 
paedia  and,  in  deference  to  the  fact  that  the  demand  for 
it  had  come  from  Miss  Van  Vluyck,  laid  the  ponderous 
tome  before  her. 

There  was  a  moment  of  painful  suspense  while  Miss 
Van  Vluyck  rubbed  her  spectacles,  adjusted  them,  and 
turned  to  Z;  and  a  murmur  of  surprise  when  she  said: 
"It  isn't  here." 


XINGU 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Plinth,  "it's  not  fit  to  be  put 
in  a  book  of  reference." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ballinger.  "Try  X." 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  turned  back  through  the  volume, 
peering  short-sightedly  up  and  down  the  pages,  till  she 
came  to  a  stop  and  remained  motionless,  like  a  dog  on  a 
point. 

"Well,  have  you  found  it?"  Mrs.  Ballinger  enquired 
after  a  considerable  delay. 

"Yes.  I've  found  it,"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck  in  a  queer 
voice. 

Mrs.  Plinth  hastily  interposed:  "I  beg  you  won't  read 
it  aloud  if  there's  anything  offensive." 

Miss  Van  Vluyck,  without  answering,  continued  her 
silent  scrutiny. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  exclaimed  Laura  Glyde  ex 
citedly. 

"Do  tell  us!"  urged  Mrs.  Leveret,  feeling  that  she 
would  have  something  awful  to  tell  her  sister. 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  pushed  the  volume  aside  and  turned 
slowly  toward  the  expectant  group. 

"It's  a  river." 

"A  river?" 

"Yes:  in  Brazil.  Isn't  that  where  she's  been  living?" 

"Who?  Fanny  Roby?  Oh,  but  you  must  be  mistaken. 
You've  been  reading  the  wrong  thing,"  Mrs.  Ballinger 
exclaimed,  leaning  over  her  to  seize  the  volume. 
[05] 


X I N  G  U 

"It's  the  only  Xingu  in  the  Encyclopaedia;  and  she 
has  been  living  in  Brazil,"  Miss  Van  Vluyck  persisted. 

"Yes:  her  brother  has  a  consulship  there,"  Mrs.  Lev 
eret  interposed. 

"But  it's  too  ridiculous!  I — we — why  we  all  remember 
studying  Xingu  last  year — or  the  year  before  last,"  Mrs. 
Ballinger  stammered. 

"I  thought  I  did  when  you  said  so,"  Laura  Glyde 
avowed. 

"7  said  so?"  cried  Mrs.  Ballinger. 

"Yes.  You  said  it  had  crowded  everything  else  out  of 
your  mind." 

"Well  you  said  it  had  changed  your  whole  life !" 

"For  that  matter,  Miss  Van  Vluyck  said  she  had  never 
grudged  the  time  she'd  given  it." 

Mrs.  Plinth  interposed:  "I  made  it  clear  that  I  knew 
nothing  whatever  of  the  original." 

Mrs.  Ballinger  broke  off  the  dispute  with  a  groan. 
"Oh,  what  does  it  all  matter  if  she's  been  making  fools  of 
us?  I  believe  Miss  Van  Vluyck's  right — she  was  talking 
of  the  river  all  the  while!" 

"How  could  she?  It's  too  preposterous,"  Miss  Glyde 
exclaimed. 

"Listen."  Miss  Van  Vluyck  had  repossessed  herself  of 
the  Encyclopedia,  and  restored  her  spectacles  to  a  nose 
reddened  by  excitement.  "'The  Xingu,  one  of  the  prin 
cipal  rivers  of  Brazil,  rises  on  the  plateau  of  Mato  Grosso, 
[3G] 


XINGU 

and  flows  in  a  northerly  direction  for  a  length  of  no  less 
than  one  thousand  one  hundred  and  eighteen  miles,  en 
tering  the  Amazon  near  the  mouth  of  the  latter  river. 
The  upper  course  of  the  Xingu  is  auriferous  and  fed  by 
numerous  branches.  Its  source  was  first  discovered  in 
1884  by  the  German  explorer  von  den  Steinen,  after  a 
difficult  and  dangerous  expedition  through  a  region  in 
habited  by  tribes  still  in  the  Stone  Age  of  culture.'" 

The  ladies  received  this  communication  in  a  state  of 
stupefied  silence  from  which  Mrs.  Leveret  was  the  first 
to  rally.  "She  certainly  did  speak  of  its  having  branches." 

The  word  seemed  to  snap  the  last  thread  of  their  in 
credulity.  "And  of  its  great  length,"  gasped  Mrs.  Ballinger. 

"She  said  it  was  awfully  deep,  and  you  couldn't  skip 
— you  just  had  to  wade  through,"  Miss  Glyde  added. 

The  idea  worked  its  way  more  slowly  through  Mrs. 
Plinth's  compact  resistances.  "How  could  there  be  any 
thing  improper  about  a  river?"  she  enquired. 

"Improper?" 

"Why,  what  she  said  about  the  source — that  it  was 
corrupt  ?  " 

"Not  corrupt,  but  hard  to  get  at,"  Laura  Glyde  cor 
rected.  "Some  one  who'd  been  there  had  told  her  so.  I 
daresay  it  was  the  explorer  himself — doesn't  it  say  the 
expedition  was  dangerous?" 

'"Difficult  and  dangerous,'"  read  Miss  Van  Vluyck. 

Mrs.  Ballinger  pressed  her  hands  to  her  throbbing 
[37] 


XINGU 

temples.  "There's  nothing  she  said  that  wouldn't  apply 
to  a  river — to  this  river!"  She  swung  about  excitedly  to 
the  other  members.  "Why,  do  you  remember  her  telling 
us  that  she  hadn't  read  'The  Supreme  Instant'  because 
she'd  taken  it  on  a  boating  party  while  she  was  staying 
with  her  brother,  and  some  one  had  'shied'  it  overboard 
— 'shied'  of  course  was  her  own  expression." 

The  ladies  breathlessly  signified  that  the  expression 
had  not  escaped  them. 

"Well— and  then  didn't  she  tell  Osric  Dane  that  one  of 
her  books  was  simply  saturated  with  Xingu?  Of  course 
it  was,  if  one  of  Mrs.  Roby's  rowdy  friends  had  thrown 
it  into  the  river!" 

This  surprising  reconstruction  o.f  the  scene  in  which 
they  had  just  participated  left  the  members  of  the  Lunch 
Club  inarticulate.  At  length,  Mrs.  Plinth,  after  visibly 
labouring  with  the  problem,  said  in  a  heavy  tone:  "Osric 
Dane  was  taken  in  too." 

Mrs.  Leveret  took  courage  at  this.  "Perhaps  that's 
what  Mrs.  Roby  did  it  for.  She  said  Osric  Dane  was  a 
brute,  and  she  may  have  wanted  to  give  her  a  lesson." 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  frowned.  "It  was  hardly  worth  while 
to  do  it  at  our  expense." 

"At  least,"  said  Miss  Glyde  with  a  touch  of  bitterness, 
"she  succeeded  in  interesting  her,  which  was  more  than 
we  did." 

"What  chance  had  we?"  rejoined  Mrs.  Ballinger. 
[88] 


XING  IT 

"Mrs.  Roby  monopolised  her  from  the  first.  And  tftat, 
I've  no  doubt,  was  her  purpose — to  give  Osric  Dane  a 
false  impression  of  her  own  standing  in  the  club.  She 
would  hesitate  at  nothing  to  attract  attention:  we  alt  know 
how  she  took  in  poor  Professor  Foreland." 

"She  actually  makes  him  give  bridge- teas  every  Thurs 
day,"  Mrs.  Leveret  piped  up. 

Laura  Glyde  struck  her  hands  together.  "Why,  this  is 
Thursday,  and  it's  there  she's  gone,  of  course;  and  taken 
Osric  with  her!" 

"And  they're  shrieking  over  us  at  this  moment,"  said 
Mrs.  Ballinger  between  her  teeth. 

This  possibility  seemed  too  preposterous  to  be  admitted. 
"She  would  hardly  dare,"  said  Miss  Van  Vluyck,  "con 
fess  the  imposture  to  Osric  Dane." 

"I'm  not  so  sure:  I  thought  I  saw  her  make  a  sign  as 
she  left.  If  she  hadn't  made  a  sign,  why  should  Osric  Dane 
have  rushed  out  after  her?" 

"Well,  you  know,  we'd  all  been  telling  her  how  won 
derful  Xingu  was,  and  she  said  she  wanted  to  find  out 
more  about  it,"  Mrs.  Leveret  said,  with  a  tardy  impulse 
of  justice  to  the  absent. 

This  reminder,  far  from  mitigating  the  wrath  of  the 
other  members,  gave  it  a  stronger  impetus. 

"Yes — and  that's  exactly  what  they're  both  laughing 
over  now,"  said  Laura  Glyde  ironically. 

Mrs.  Plinth  stood  up  and  gathered  her  expensive  furs 
[39] 


X I  N  G  U 

about  her  monumental  form.  "I  have  no  wish  to  criticise," 
she  said;  "but  unless  the  Lunch  Club  can  protect  its  mem 
bers  against  the  recurrence  of  such — such  unbecoming 
scenes,  I  for  one — " 

"Oh,  so  do  I!"  agreed  Miss  Clyde,  rising  also. 

Miss  Van  Vluyck  closed  the  Encyclopaedia  and  pro 
ceeded  to  button  herself  into  her  jacket.  "My  time  is 
really  too  valuable — "  she  began. 

"I  fancy  we  are  all  of  one  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Ballinger, 
looking  searchingly  at  Mrs.  Leveret,  who  looked  at  the 
others. 

"I  always  deprecate  anything  like  a  scandal — "  Mrs. 
Plinth  continued. 

"She  has  been  the  cause  of  one  to-day!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Clyde. 

Mrs.  Leveret  moaned:  "I  don't  see  how  she  could!" 
and  Miss  Van  Vluyck  said,  picking  up  her  note-book: 
"Some  women  stop  at  nothing." 

" — but  if,"  Mrs.  Plinth  took  up  her  argument  impres 
sively,  "anything  of  the  kind  had  happened  in  my  house" 
(it  never  would  have,  her  tone  implied),  "I  should  have 
felt  that  I  owed  it  to  myself  either  to  ask  for  Mrs.  Roby's 
resignation — or  to  offer  mine." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Plinth—"  gasped  the  Lunch  Club. 

"Fortunately  for  me,"  Mrs.  Plinth  continued  with  an 
awful  magnanimity,  "the  matter  was  taken  out  of  my 
hands  by  our  President's  decision  that  the  right  to  enter- 
[40] 


XINGU 

tain  distinguished  guests  was  a  privilege  vested  in  her 
office;  and  I  think  the  other  members  will  agree  that,  as 
she  was  alone  in  this  opinion,  she  ought  to  be  alone  in 
deciding  on  the  best  way  of  effacing  its — its  really  deplora 
ble  consequences." 

A  deep  silence  followed  this  outbreak  of  Mrs.  Plinth's 
long-stored  resentment. 

"I  don't  see  why  /  should  be  expected  to  ask  her  to 
resign — "  Mrs.  Ballinger  at  length  began;  but  Laura 
Glyde  turned  back  to  remind  her:  "You  know  she  made 
you  say  that  you'd  got  on  swimmingly  in  Xingu." 

An  ill-timed  giggle  escaped  from  Mrs.  Leveret,  and 
Mrs.  Ballinger  energetically  continued  " — but  you 
needn't  think  for  a  moment  that  I'm  afraid  to!'* 

The  door  of  the  drawing-room  closed  on  the  retreat 
ing  backs  of  the  Lunch  Club,  and  the  President  of  that 
distinguished  association,  seating  herself  at  her  writing- 
table,  and  pushing  away  a  copy  of  "The  Wings  of  Death" 
to  make  room  for  her  elbow,  drew  forth  a  sheet  of  the 
club's  note-paper,  on  which  she  began  to  write:  "My  dear 
Mrs.  Roby— " 


[41] 


COMING    HOME 


COMING    HOME 
I 

THE  young  men  of  our  American  Relief  Corps  are 
beginning  to  come  back  from  the  front  with 
stories. 

There  was  no  time  to  pick  them  up  during  the  first 
months — the  whole  business  was  too  wild  and  grim.  The 
horror  has  not  decreased,  but  nerves  and  sight  are  begin 
ning  to  be  disciplined  to  it.  In  the  earlier  days,  moreover, 
such  fragments  of  experience  as  one  got  were  torn  from 
their  setting  like  bits  of  flesh  scattered  by  shrapnel. 
Now  things  that  seemed  disjointed  are  beginning  to  link 
themselves  together,  and  the  broken  bones  of  history  are 
rising  from  the  battle-fields. 

I  can't  say  that,  in  this  respect,  all  the  members  of  the 
Relief  Corps  have  made  the  most  of  their  opportunity. 
Some  are  unobservant,  or  perhaps  simply  inarticulate; 
others,  when  going  beyond  the  bald  statistics  of  their  job, 
tend  to  drop  into  sentiment  and  cinema  scenes;  and  none 
but  H.  Macy  Greer  has  the  gift  of  making  the  thing  told 
seem  as  true  as  if  one  had  seen  it.  So  it  is  on  H.  Macy 
Greer  that  I  depend,  and  when  his  motor  dashes  him 
[45] 


COMING    HOME 

back  to  Paris  for  supplies  I  never  fail  to  hunt  him  down 
and  coax  him  to  my  rooms  for  dinner  and  a  long  cigar. 

Greer  is  a  small  hard-muscled  youth,  with  pleasant 
manners,  a  sallow  face,  straight  hemp-coloured  hair  and 
grey  eyes  of  unexpected  inwardness.  He  has  a  voice  like 
thick  soup,  and  speaks  with  the  slovenly  drawl  of  the  new 
generation  of  Americans,  dragging  his  words  along  like 
reluctant  dogs  on  a  string,  and  depriving  his  narrative  of 
every  shade  of  expression  that  intelligent  intonation  gives. 
But  his  eyes  see  so  much  that  they  make  one  see  even 
what  his  foggy  voice  obscures. 

Some  of  his  tales  are  dark  and  dreadful,  some  are  un 
utterably  sad,  and  some  end  in  a  huge  laugh  of  irony.  I 
am  not  sure  how  I  ought  to  classify  the  one  I  have  written 
down  here. 

II 

ON  my  first  dash  to  the  Northern  fighting  line — 
Greer  told  me  the  other  night — I  carried  supplies 
to  an  ambulance  where  the  surgeon  asked  me  to  have  a 
talk  with  an  officer  who  was  badly  wounded  and  fretting 
for  news  of  his  people  in  the  east  of  France. 

He  was  a  young  Frenchman,  a  cavalry  lieutenant, 
trim  and  slim,  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  obstinate  blue 
eyes  that  I  liked.  He  looked  as  if  he  could  hold  on  tight 
when  it  was  worth  his  while.  He  had  had  a  leg  smashed, 
poor  devil,  in  the  first  fighting  in  Flanders,  and  had  been 
[46] 


COMING    HOME 

dragging  on  for  weeks  in  the  squalid  camp-hospital  where 
I  found  him.  He  didn't  waste  any  words  on  himself,  but 
began  at  once  about  his  family.  They  were  living,  when 
the  war  broke  out,  at  their  country-place  in  the  Vosges; 
his  father  and  mother,  his  sister,  just  eighteen,  and  his 
brother  Alain,  two  years  younger.  His  father,  the  Comte 
de  Rechamp,  had  married  late  in  life,  and  was  over 
seventy:  his  mother,  a  good  deal  younger,  was  crippled 
with  rheumatism;  and  there  was,  besides — to  round  off 
the  group — a  helpless  but  intensely  alive  and  domineer 
ing  old  grandmother  about  whom  all  the  others  revolved. 
You  know  how  French  families  hang  together,  and  throw 
out  branches  that  make  new  roots  but  keep  hold  of  the 
central  trunk,  like  that  tree — what's  it  called  ? — that  they 
give  pictures  of  in  books  about  the  East. 

Jean  de  Rechamp — that  was  my  lieutenant's  name — 
told  me  his  family  was  a  typical  case.  "We're  very  pro 
vince,"  he  said.  "My  people  live  at  Rechamp  all  the  year. 
We  have  a  house  at  Nancy — rather  a  fine  old  hotel — but 
my  parents  go  there  only  once  in  two  or  three  years,  for 
a  few  weeks.  That's  our  'season.' . .  .Imagine  the  point  of 

view !  Or  rather  don't,  because  you  couldn't "  (He 

had  been  about  the  world  a  good  deal,  and  known  some 
thing  of  other  angles  of  vision.) 

Well,  of  this  helpless  exposed  little  knot  of  people  he 
had  had  no  word — simply  nothing — since  the  first  of 
August.  He  was  at  home,  staying  with  them  at  Rechamp, 
[471 


COMING    HOME 

when  war  broke  out.  He  was  mobilised  the  first  day,  and 
had  only  time  to  throw  his  traps  into  a  cart  and  dash  to 
the  station.  His  depot  was  on  the  other  side  of  France, 
and  communications  with  the  East  by  mail  and  telegraph 
were  completely  interrupted  during  the  first  weeks.  His 
regiment  was  sent  at  once  to  the  fighting  line,  and  the 
first  news  he  got  came  to  him  in  October,  from  a  com 
munique  in  a  Paris  paper  a  mpnth  old,  saying:  "The  enemy 
yesterday  retook  Rechamp."  After  that,  dead  silence:  and 
the  poor  devil  left  in  the  trenches  to  digest  that  "retook"  I 

There  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  just  such  cases; 
and  men  bearing  them,  and  cracking  jokes,  and  hitting 
out  as  hard  as  they  can.  Jean  de  Rechamp  knew  this,  and 
tried  to  crack  jokes  too — but  he  got  his  leg  smashed  just 
afterward,  and  ever  since  he'd  been  lying  on  a  straw  pal 
let  under  a  horse-blanket,  saying  to  himself:  "Rechamp 
retaken" 

"Of  course,"  he  explained  with  a  weary  smile,  "as 
long  as  you  can  tot  up  your  daily  bag  in  the  trenches  it's 
a  sort  of  satisfaction — though  I  don't  quite  know  why; 
anyhow,  you're  so  dead-beat  at  night  that  no  dreams 
come.  But  lying  here  staring  at  the  ceiling  one  goes 
through  the  whole  business  once  an  hour,  at  the  least: 
the  attack,  the  slaughter,  the  ruins... and  worse.... 
Haven't  I  seen  and  heard  things  enough  on  this  side  to 
know  what's  been  happening  on  the  other?  Don't  try  to 
sugar  the  dose.  I  like  it  bitter." 
[48] 


COMING    HOME 

I  was  three  days  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  I  went 
back  every  day  to  see  him.  He  liked  to  talk  to  me  because 
he  had  a  faint  hope  of  my  getting  news  of  his  family  when 
I  returned  to  Paris.  I  hadn't  much  myself,  but  there  was 
no  use  telling  him  so.  Besides,  things  change  from  day 
to  day,  and  when  we  parted  I  promised  to  get  word  to 
him  as  soon  as  I  could  find  out  anything.  We  both  knew, 
of  course,  that  that  would  not  be  till  Rechamp  was  taken 
a  third  time — by  his  own  troops;  and  perhaps  soon  after 
that,  I  should  be  able  to  get  there,  or  near  there,  and  make 
enquiries  myself.  To  make  sure  that  I  should  forget  noth 
ing,  he  drew  the  family  photographs  from  under  his 
pillow,  and  handed  them  over:  the  little  witch-grand 
mother,  with  a  face  like  a  withered  walnut,  the  father, 
a  fine  broken-looking  old  boy  with  a  Roman  nose  and  a 
weak  chin,  the  mother,  in  crape,  simple,  serious  and  pro 
vincial,  the  little  sister  ditto,  and  Alain,  the  young 
brother — just  the  age  the  brutes  have  been  carrying  off 
to  German  prisons — an  over-grown  thread-paper  boy 
with  too  much  forehead  and  eyes,  and  not  a  muscle  in 
his  body.  A  charming-looking  family,  distinguished  and 
amiable;  but  all,  except  the  grandmother,  rather  usual. 
The  kind  of  people  who  come  in  sets. 

As  I  pocketed  the  photographs  I  noticed  that  another 
lay  face  down  by  his  pillow.  "Is  that  for  me  too?"  I 
asked. 

He  coloured  and  shook  his  head,  and  I  felt  I  had  blun- 
[49] 


COMING    HOME 

dered.  But  after  a  moment  he  turned  the  photograph 
over  and  held  it  out. 

"It's  the  young  girl  I  am  engaged  to.  She  was  at  Re- 
champ  visiting  my  parents  when  war  was  declared;  but 

she  was  to  leave  the  day  after  I  did "  He  hesitated. 

"There  may  have  been  some  difficulty  about  her  going. 

...  I  should  like  to  be  sure  she  got  away Her  name  is 

Yvonne  Malo." 

He  did  not  offer  me  the  photograph,  and  I  did  not 
need  it.  That  girl  had  a  face  of  her  own !  Dark  and  keen 
and  splendid:  a  type  so  different  from  the  others  that  I 
found  myself  staring.  If  he  had  not  said  "ma  fiancee"  I 
should  have  understood  better.  After  another  pause  he 
went  on:  "I  will  give  you  her  address  in  Paris.  She  has 
no  family:  she  lives  alone — she  is  a  musician.  Perhaps 
you  may  find  her  there."  His  colour  deepened  again  as 
he  added:  "But  I  know  nothing — I  have  had  no  news  of 
her  either." 

To  ease  the  silence  that  followed  I  suggested:  "But 
if  she  has  no  family,  wouldn't  she  have  been  likely  to 
stay  with  your  people,  and  wouldn't  that  be  the  reason 
of  your  not  hearing  from  her?" 

"Oh,  no — I  don't  think  she  stayed."  He  seemed  about 
to  add:  "If  she  could  help  it,"  but  shut  his  lips  and  slid 
the  picture  out  of  sight. 

As  soon  as  I  got  back  to  Paris  I  made  enquiries,  but 
without  result.  The  Germans  had  been  pushed  back  from 
[50] 


COMING    HOME 

thai  particular  spot  after  a  fortnight's  intermittent  occu 
pation;  but  their  lines  were  close  by,  across  the  valley, 
and  Rechamp  was  still  in  a  net  of  trenches.  No  one  could 
get  to  it,  and  apparently  no  news  could  come  from  it. 
For  the  moment,  at  any  rate,  I  found  it  impossible  to  get 
in  touch  with  the  place. 

My  enquiries  about  Mile.  Malo  were  equally  unfruitful. 
I  went  to  the  address  Recharnp  had  given  me,  some 
where  off  in  Passy,  among  gardens,  in  what  they  call  a 
"Square,"  no  doubt  because  it's  oblong:  a  kind  of  long 
narrow  court  with  aesthetic-looking  studio  buildings 
round  it.  Mile.  Malo  lived  in  one  of  them,  on  the  top 
floor,  the  concierge  said,  and  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  big 
studio  window,  and  a  roof-terrace  with  dead  gourds 
dangling  from  a  pergola.  But  she  wrasn't  there,  she  hadn't 
been  there,  and  they  had  no  news  of  her.  I  wrote  to 
Rechamp  of  my  double  failure,  he  sent  me  back  a  line 
of  thanks;  and  after  that  for  a  long  while  I  heard  no 
more  of  him. 

By  the  beginning  of  November  the  enemy's  hold  had 
begun  to  loosen  in  the  Argonne  and  along  the  Vosges, 
and  one  day  we  were  sent  off  to  the  East  with  a  couple 
of  ambulances.  Of  course  we  had  to  have  military  chauf 
feurs,  and  the  one  attached  to  my  ambulance  happened 
to  be  a  fellow  I  knew.  The  day  before  we  started,  in  talk 
ing  over  our  route  with  him,  I  said:  "I  suppose  we  can 
manage  to  get  to  Rechamp  now?"  He  looked  puzzled — 
[51] 


COMING    HOME 

it  was  such  a  little  place  that  he'd  forgotten  the  name. 
"Why  do  you  want  to  get  there?"  he  wondered.  I  told 
him,  and  he  gave  an  exclamation.  "Good  God!  Of  course 
— but  how  extraordinary!  Jean  de  Rechamp's  here  now, 
in  Paris,  too  lame  for  the  front,  and  driving  a  motor." 
We  stared  at  each  other,  and  he  went  on:  "He  must  take 
my  place — he  must  go  with  you.  I  don't  know  how  it 
can  be  done;  but  done  it  shall  be." 

Done  it  was,  and  the  next  morning  at  daylight  I  found 
Jean  de  Rechamp  at  the  wheel  of  my  car.  He  looked  an 
other  fellow  from  the  wreck  I  had  left  in  the  Flemish 
hospital;  all  made  over,  and  burning  with  activity,  but 
older,  and  with  lines  about  his  eyes.  He  had  had  news 
from  his  people  in  the  interval,  and  had  learned  that  they 
were  still  at  Rechamp,  and  well.  What  was  more  surpris 
ing  was  that  Mile.  Malo  was  with  them — had  never  left. 
Alain  had  been  got  away  to  England,  where  he  remained; 
but  none  of  the  others  had  budged.  They  had  fitted  up 
an  ambulance  in  the  chateau,  and  Mile.  Malo  and  the 
little  sister  were  nursing  the  wounded.  There  were  not 
many  details  in  the  letters,  and  they  had  been  a  long  time 
on  the  way;  but  their  tone  was  so  reassuring  that  Jean 
could  give  himself  up  to  unclouded  anticipation.  You 
may  fancy  if  he  was  grateful  for  the  chance  I  was  giving 
him;  for  of  course  he  couldn't  have  seen  his  people  in  any 
other  way. 

Our  permits,  as  you  know,  don't  as  a  rule  let  us  into 
[52] 


COMING    HOME 

the  firing-line:  we  only  take  supplies  to  second-line  am 
bulances,  and  carry  back  the  badly  wounded  in  need  of 
delicate  operations.  So  I  wasn't  in  the  least  sure  we  should 
be  allowed  to  go  to  Rechamp — though  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  get  there,  anyhow. 

We  were  about  a  fortnight  on  the  way,  coming  and 
going  in  Champagne  and  the  Argonne,  and  that  gave  us 
time  to  get  to  know  each  other.  It  was  bitter  cold,  and 
after  our  long  runs  over  the  lonely  frozen  hills  we  used 
to  crawl  into  the  cafe  of  the  inn — if  there  was  one — and 
talk  and  talk.  We  put  up  in  fairly  rough  places,  generally 
in  a  farm  house  or  a  cottage  packed  with  soldiers;  for  the 
villages  have  all  remained  empty  since  the  autumn,  ex 
cept  when  troops  are  quartered  in  them.  Usually,  to  keep 
warm,  we  had  to  go  up  after  supper  to  the  room  we  shared, 
and  get  under  the  blankets  with  our  clothes  on.  Once 
some  jolly  Sisters  of  Charity  took  us  in  at  their  Hospice, 
and  we  slept  two  nights  in  an  ice-cold  whitewashed  cell 
— but  what  tales  we  heard  around  their  kitchen-fire ! 
The  Sisters  had  stayed  alone  to  face  the  Germans,  had 
seen  the  town  burn,  and  had  made  the  Teutons  turn  the 
hose  on  the  singed  roof  of  their  Hospice  and  beat  the 
fire  back  from  it.  It's  a  pity  those  Sisters  of  Charity  can't 
marry. . . . 

Rechamp  told  me  a  lot  in  those  days.  I  don't  believe 
he  was  talkative  before  the  war,  but  his  long  weeks  in 
hospital,  starving  for  news,  had  unstrung  him.  And  then 
[53] 


COMING    HOME 

he  was  mad  with  excitement  at  getting  back  to  his  own 
place.  In  the  interval  he'd  heard  how  other  people  caught 
in  their  country-houses  had  fared — you  know  the  stories 
we  all  refused  to  believe  at  first,  and  that  we  now  prefer 

not  to  think  about Well,  he'd  been  thinking  about 

those  stories  pretty  steadily  for  some  months;  and  he 
kept  repeating:  "My  people  say  they're  all  right — but 
they  give  no  details." 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "there  never  were  such  help 
less  beings.  Even  if  there  had  been  time  to  leave,  they 
couldn't  have  done  it.  My  mother  had  been  having  one 
of  her  worst  attacks  of  rheumatism — she  was  in  bed, 
helpless,  when  I  left.  And  my  grandmother,  who  is  a 
demon  of  activity  in  the  house,  won't  stir  out  of  it.  We 
haven't  been  able  to  coax  her  into  the  garden  for  years. 
She  says  it's  draughty;  and  you  know  how  we  all  feel 
about  draughts !  As  for  my  father,  he  hasn't  had  to  de 
cide  anything  since  the  Comte  de  Chambord  refused  to 
adopt  the  tricolour.  My  father  decided  that  he  was  right, 
and  since  then  there  has  been  nothing  particular  for  him 
to  take  a  stand  about.  But  I  know  how  he  behaved  just 
as  well  as  if  I'd  been  there — he  kept  saying:  'One  must 
act — one  must  act!'  and  sitting  in  his  chair  and  doing 
nothing.  Oh,  I'm  not  disrespectful:  they  were  like  that  in 
his  generation !  Besides — it's  better  to  laugh  at  things, 
isn't  it?"  And  suddenly  his  face  would  darken.... 

On  the  whole,  however,  his  spirits  were  good  till  we 
[54] 


COMING    HOME 

began  to  traverse  the  line  of  ruined  towns  between  Sainte 
Menehould  and  Bar-le-Duc.  "This  is  the  way  the  devils 
came,"  he  kept  saying  to  me;  and  I  saw  he  was  hard  at 
work  picturing  the  work  they  must  have  done  in  his  own 
neighbourhood. 

"But  since  your  sister  writes  that  your  people  are 
safe!" 

"They  may  have  made  her  write  that  to  reassure  me. 
They'd  heard  I  was  badly  wounded.  And,  mind  you, 
there's  never  been  a  line  from  my  mother." 

"But  you  say  your  mother's  hands  are  so  lame  that 
she  can't  hold  a  pen.  And  wouldn't  Mile.  Malo  have 
written  you  the  truth?" 

At  that  his  frown  would  lift.  "Oh,  yes.  She  would  de 
spise  any  attempt  at  concealment." 

"Well,  then— what  the  deuce  is  the  matter?" 

"It's  when  I  see  these  devils'  traces — "  he  could  only 
mutter. 

One  day,  when  we  had  passed  through  a  particularly 
devastated  little  place,  and  had  got  from  the  cure  some 
more  than  usually  abominable  details  of  things  done 
there,  Rechamp  broke  out  to  me  over  the  kitchen-fire  of 
our  night's  lodging.  "When  I  hear  things  like  that  I  don't 
believe  anybody  who  tells  me  my  people  are  all  right!" 

"But  you  know  well  enough,"  I  insisted,  "that  the 
Germans  are  not  all  alike — that  it  all  depends  on  the 
particular  officer. . . ." 

[55] 


COMING    HOME 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  he  assented,  with  a  visible  effort 

at  impartiality.  "Only,  you  see — as  one  gets  nearer " 

He  went  on  to  say  that,  when  he  had  been  sent  from  the 
ambulance  at  the  front  to  a  hospital  at  Moulins,  he  had 
been  for  a  day  or  two  in  a  ward  next  to  some  wounded 
German  soldiers — bad  cases,  they  were — and  had  heard 
them  talking.  They  didn't  know  he  knew  German,  and  he 
had  heard  things. . . .  There  was  one  name  always  coming 
back  in  their  talk,  von  Scharlach,  Oberst  von  Scharlach. 
One  of  them,  a  young  fellow,  said:  "I  wish  now  I'd  cut 
my  hand  off  rather  than  do  what  he  told  us  to  that 
night....  Every  time  the  fever  comes  I  see  it  all  again. 
I  wish  I'd  been  struck  dead  first."  They  all  said  "Schar 
lach"  with  a  kind  of  terror  in  their  voices,  as  if  he  might 
hear  them  even  there,  and  come  down  on  them  horribly. 
Rechamp  had  asked  where  their  regiment  came  from, 
and  had  been  told:  From  the  Vosges.  That  had  set  his 
brain  working,  and  whenever  he  saw  a  ruined  village,  or 
heard  a  tale  of  savagery,  the  Scharlach  nerve  began  to 
quiver.  At  such  times  it  was  no  use  reminding  him  that 
the  Germans  had  had  at  least  three  hundred  thousand 
men  in  the  East  in  August.  He  simply  didn't  listen. . . . 


[56] 


COMING    HOME 


III 


THE  day  before  we  started  for  Rechamp  his  spirits 
flew  up  again,  and  that  night  he  became  confiden 
tial.  "You've  been  such  a  friend  to  me  that  there  are  cer 
tain  things — seeing  what's  ahead  of  us — that  I  should  like 
to  explain";  and,  noticing  my  surprise,  he  went  on:  "I 
mean  about  my  people.  The  state  of  mind  in  my  milieu 
must  be  so  remote  from  anything  you're  used  to  in  your 
happy  country. . . .  But  perhaps  I  can  make  you  under 
stand.  . . ." 

I  saw  that  what  he  wanted  was  to  talk  to  me  of  the 
girl  he  was  engaged  to.  Mile.  Malo,  left  an  orphan  at  ten, 
had  been  the  ward  of  a  neighbour  of  the  Rechamps',  a 
chap  with  an  old  name  and  a  starred  chateau,  who  had 
lost  almost  everything  else  at  baccarat  before  he  was 
forty,  and  had  repented,  had  the  gout  and  studied  agri 
culture  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  girl's  father  was  a  rather 
brilliant  painter,  who  died  young,  and  her  mother,  who 
followed  him  in  a  year  or  two,  was  a  Pole :  you  may  fancy 
that,  with  such  antecedents,  the  girl  was  just  the  mixture 
to  shake  down  quietly  into  French  country  life  with  a 
gouty  and  repentant  guardian.  The  Marquis  de  Corve- 
naire — that  was  his  name — brought  her  down  to  his  place, 
got  an  old  maid  sister  to  come  and  stay,  and  really,  as 
far  as  one  knows,  brought  his  ward  up  rather  decently. 
[57] 


COMING    HOME 

Now  and  then  she  used  to  be  driven  over  to  play  with 
the  young  Rechamps,  and  Jean  remembered  her  as  an 
ugly  little  girl  in  a  plaid  frock,  who  used  to  invent  wonder 
ful  games  and  get  tired  of  playing  them  just  as  the  other 
children  were  beginning  to  learn  how.  But  her  domi 
neering  ways  and  searching  questions  did  not  meet  with 
his  mother's  approval,  and  her  visits  were  not  encour 
aged.  When  she  was  seventeen  her  guardian  died  and 
left  her  a  little  money.  The  maiden  sister  had  gone  dotty, 
there  was  nobody  to  look  after  Yvonne,  and  she  went  to 
Paris,  to  an  aunt,  broke  loose  from  the  aunt  when  she 
came  of  age,  set  up  her  studio,  travelled,  painted,  played 
the  violin,  knew  lots  of  people;  and  never  laid  eyes  on 
Jean  de  Rechamp  till  about  a  year  before  the  war,  when 
her  guardian's  place  was  sold,  and  she  had  to  go  down 
there  to  see  about  her  interest  in  the  property. 

The  old  Rechamps  heard  she  was  coming,  but  didn't 
ask  her  to  stay.  Jean  drove  over  to  the  shut-up  chateau, 
however,  and  found  Mile.  Malo  lunching  on  a  corner  of 
the  kitchen  table.  She  exclaimed:  "My  little  Jean!"  flew 
to  him  with  a  kiss  for  each  cheek,  and  made  him  sit  down 
and  share  her  omelet....  The  ugly  little  girl  had  shed 
her  chrysalis — and  you  may  fancy  if  he  went  back  once 
or  twice ! 

Mile.  Malo  was  staying  at  the  chateau  all  alone,  with 
the  farmer's  wife  to  come  in  and  cook  her  dinner:  not  a 
soul  in  the  house  at  night  but  herself  and  her  brindled 
[58] 


COMING    HOME 

sheep  dog.  She  had  to  be  there  a  week,  and  Jean  suggested 
to  his  people  to  ask  her  to  Rechamp.  But  at  Rechamp 
they  hesitated,  coughed,  looked  away,  said  the  spare- 
rooms  were  all  upside  down,  and  the  valet-de-chambre 
laid  up  with  the  mumps,  and  the  cook  short-handed — 
till  finally  the  irrepressible  grandmother  broke  out:  "A 
young  girl  who  chooses  to  live  alone — probably  prefers 
to  live  alone!" 

There  was  a  deadly  silence,  and  Jean  did  not  raise  the 
question  again;  but  I  can  imagine  his  blue  eyes  getting 
obstinate. 

Soon  after  Mile.  Malo's  return  to  Paris  he  followed 
her  and  began  to  frequent  the  Passy  studio.  The  life  there 
was  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen — or  conceived  as 
possible,  short  of  the  prairies.  He  had  sampled  the  usual 
varieties  of  French  womankind,  and  explored  most  of  the 
social  layers;  but  he  had  missed  the  newest,  that  of  the 
artistic-emancipated.  I  don't  know  much  about  that  set 
myself,  but  from  his  descriptions  I  should  say  they  were 
a  good  deal  like  intelligent  Americans,  except  that  they 
don't  seem  to  keep  art  and  life  in  such  water-tight  com 
partments.  But  his  great  discovery  was  the  new  girl.  Ap 
parently  he  had  never  before  known  any  but  the  tradi 
tional  type,  which  predominates  in  the  provinces,  and  still 
persists,  he  tells  me,  in  the  last  fastnesses  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain.  The  girl  who  comes  and  goes  as  she  pleases, 
reads  what  she  likes,  has  opinions  about  what  she  reads, 


COMING    HOME 

who  talks,  looks,  behaves  with  the  independence  of  a 
married  woman — and  yet  has  kept  the  Diana-freshness 
— think  how  she  must  have  shaken  up  such  a  man's  in 
herited  view  of  things !  Mile.  Malo  did  far  more  than 
make  Rechamp  fall  in  love  with  her:  she  turned  his  world 
topsy-turvey,  and  prevented  his  ever  again  squeezing 
himself  into  his  little  old  pigeon-hole  of  prejudices. 

Before  long  they  confessed  their  love — just  like  any 
young  couple  of  Anglo-Saxons — and  Jean  went  down  to 
Rechamp  to  ask  permission  to  marry  her.  Neither  you 
nor  I  can  quite  enter  into  the  state  of  mind  of  a  young 
man  of  twenty-seven  who  has  knocked  about  all  over  the 
globe,  and  been  hi  and  out  of  the  usual  sentimental  coils 
— and  who  has  to  ask  his  parents'  leave  to  get  married ! 
Don't  let  us  try:  it's  no  use.  We  should  only  end  by  pic 
turing  him  as  an  incorrigible  ninny.  But  there  isn't  a 
man  in  France  who  wouldn't  feel  it  his  duty  to  take  that 
step,  as  Jean  de  Rechamp  did.  All  we  can  do  is  to  accept 
the  premise  and  pass  on. 

Well — Jean  went  down  and  asked  his  father  and  his 
mother  and  his  old  grandmother  if  they  would  permit 
him  to  marry  Mile.  Malo;  and  they  all  with  one  voice 
said  they  wouldn't.  There  was  an  uproar,  in  fact;  and 
the  old  grandmother  contributed  the  most  piercing  note 
to  the  concert.  Marry  Mile.  Malo !  A  young  girl  who  lived 
alone !  Travelled !  Spent  her  time  with  foreigners — with 
musicians  and  painters !  A  young  girl  I  Of  course,  if  she 
[CO] 


COMING    HOME 

had  been  a  married  woman — that  is,  a  widow — much  as 
they  would  have  preferred  a  young  girl  for  Jean,  or  even, 
if  widow  it  had  to  be,  a  widow  of  another  type — still,  it 
was  conceivable  that,  out  of  affection  for  him,  they  might 
have  resigned  themselves  to  his  choice.  But  a  young  girl 
— bring  such  a  young  girl  to  Rechamp !  Ask  them  to  re 
ceive  her  under  the  same  roof  with  their  little  Simone, 
their  innocent  Alain. . . . 

He  had  a  bad  hour  of  it;  but  he  held  his  own,  keeping 
silent  while  they  screamed,  and  stiffening  as  they  began 
to  wobble  from  exhaustion.  Finally  he  took  his  mother 
apart,  and  tried  to  reason  with  her.  His  arguments  were 
not  much  use,  but  his  resolution  impressed  her,  and  he 
saw  it.  As  fdr  his  father,  nobody  was  afraid  of  Monsieur 
de  Rechamp.  When  he  said:  "Never — never  while  I  live, 
and  there  is  a  roof  on  Rechamp !"  they  all  knew  he  had 
collapsed  inside.  But  the  grandmother  was  terrible.  She 
was  terrible  because  she  was  so  old,  and  so  clever  at  tak 
ing  advantage  of  it.  She  could  bring  on  a  valvular  heart- 
attack  by  just  sitting  still  and  holding  her  breath,  as 
Jean  and  his  mother  had  long  since  found  out;  and  she 
always  treated  them  to  one  when  things  weren't  going 
as  she  liked.  Madame  de  Rechamp  promised  Jean  that 
she  would  intercede  with  her  mother-in-law;  but  she 
hadn't  much  faith  in  the  result,  and  when  she  came  out 
of  the  old  lady's  room  she  whispered:  "She's  just  sitting 
there  holding  her  breath." 

[01] 


COMING    HOME 

The  next  day  Jean  himself  advanced  to  the  attack. 
His  grandmother  was  the  most  intelligent  member  of  the 
family,  and  she  knew  he  knew  it,  and  liked  him  for  having 
found  it  out;  so  when  he  had  her  alone  she  listened  to 
him  without  resorting  to  any  valvular  tricks.  "Of  course/' 
he  explained,  "you're  much  too  clever  not  to  understand 
that  the  times  have  changed,  and  manners  with  them, 
and  that  what  a  woman  wras  criticised  for  doing  yester 
day  she  is  ridiculed  for  not  doing  to-day.  Nearly  all  the 
old  social  thou-shalt-nots  have  gone:  intelligent  people 
nowadays  don't  give  a  fig  for  them,  and  that  simple  fact 
has  abolished  them.  They  only  existed  as  long  as  there 
was  some  one  left  for  them  to  scare."  His  grandmother 
listened  with  a  sparkle  of  admiration  in  her  ancient  eyes. 
"And  of  course,"  Jean  pursued,  "that  can't  be  the  real 
reason  for  your  opposing  my  marriage — a  marriage  with 
a  young  girl  you've  always  known,  who  has  been  received 
here — 

"Ah,  that's  it — we've  always  known  her!"  the  old 
lady  snapped  him  up. 

"What  of  that?  I  don't  see—" 

"Of  course  you  don't.  You're  here  so  little:  you  don't 
hear  things.  ..." 

"What  things?" 

"Things  in  the  air  ...  that  blow  about You  were 

doing  your  military  service  at  the  time.  ..." 

"At  what  time?" 

[62] 


COMING    HOME 

She  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  warning  hand  on  his 
arm.  "Why  did  Corvenaire  leave  her  all  that  money — 
why  ?  " 

"But  why  not — why  shouldn't  he?"  Jean  stammered, 
indignant.  Then  she  unpacked  her  bag — a  heap  of  vague 
insinuations,  baseless  conjectures,  village  tattle,  all,  at 
the  last  analysis,  based,  as  he  succeeded  in  proving,  and 
making  her  own,  on  a  word  launched  at  random  by  a 
discharged  maid-servant  who  had  retailed  her  grievance 
to  the  cure's  housekeeper.  "Oh,  she  does  what  she  likes 
with  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  the  young  miss !  She  knows 
how. ..."  On  that  single  phrase  the  neighbourhood  had 
raised  a  slander  built  of  adamant. 

Well,  I'll  give  you  an  idea  of  what  a  determined  fellow 
Rechamp  is,  when  I  tell  you  he  pulled  it  down — or  thought 
he  did.  He  kept  his  temper,  hunted  up  the  servant's 
record,  proved  her  a  liar  and  dishonest,  cast  grave  doubts 
on  the  discretion  of  the  cure's  housekeeper,  and  poured 
such  a  flood  of  ridicule  over  the  whole  flimsy  fable,  and 
those  who  had  believed  in  it,  that  in  sheer  shame-faced- 
ness  at  having  based  her  objection  on  such  grounds,  his 
grandmother  gave  way,  and  brought  his  parents  toppling 
down  with  her. 

All  this  happened  a  few  weeks  before  the  war,  and  soon 

afterward  Mile.  Malo  came  down  to  Rechamp.  Jean  had 

insisted  on  her  coming:  he  wanted  her  presence  there,  as 

his  betrothed,  to  be  known  to  the  neighbourhood.  As  for 

[63] 


COMING    HOME 

her,  she  seemed  delighted  to  come.  I  could  see  from  Re- 
champ's  tone,  when  he  reached  this  part  of  his  story, 
that  he  rather  thought  I  should  expect  its  heroine  to  have 
shown  a  becoming  reluctance — to  have  stood  on  her  dig 
nity.  He  was  distinctly  relieved  when  he  found  I  expected 
no  such  thing. 

"She's  simplicity  itself — it's  her  great  quality.  Vain 
complications  don't  exist  for  her,  because  she  doesn't  see 
them. . .  that's  what  my  people  can't  be  made  to  under 
stand.  ..." 

I  gathered  from  the  last  phrase  that  the  visit  had  not 
been  a  complete  success,  and  this  explained  his  having 
let  out,  when  he  first  told  me  of  his  fears  for  his  family, 
that  he  was  sure  Mile.  Malo  would  not  have  remained 
at  Rechamp  if  she  could  help  it.  Oh,  no,  decidedly,  the 
visit  was  not  a  success.  . .  . 

"You  see,"  he  explained  with  a  half -embarrassed 
smile,  "it  was  partly  her  fault.  Other  girls  as  clever,  but 
less — how  shall  I  say? — less  proud,  would  have  adapted 
themselves,  arranged  things,  avoided  startling  allusions. 
She  wouldn't  stoop  to  that;  she  talked  to  my  family  as 
naturally  as  she  did  to  me.  You  can  imagine  for  instance, 
the  effect  of  her  saying:  'One  night,  after  a  supper  at  Mont- 
martre,  I  was  walking  home  with  two  or  three  pals' — .  It 
was  her  way  of  affirming  her  convictions,  and  I  adored  her 
for  it — but  I  wished  she  wouldn't!" 

And  he  depicted,  to  my  joy,  the  neighbours  rumbling 
[041 


COMING    HOME 

over  to  call  in  heraldic  barouches  (the  mothers  alone — 
with  embarrassed  excuses  for  not  bringing  their  daugh 
ters),  and  the  agony  of  not  knowing,  till  they  were  in 
the  room,  if  Yvonne  would  receive  them  with  lowered 
lids  and  folded  hands,  sitting  by  in  a  pose  de  fiancee  while 
the  elders  talked;  or  if  she  would  take  the  opportunity 
to  air  her  views  on  the  separation  of  Church  and  State, 
or  the  necessity  of  making  divorce  easier.  "It's  not,"  he 
explained,  "that  she  really  takes  much  interest  in  such 
questions:  she's  much  more  absorbed  in  her  music  and 
painting.  But  anything  her  eye  lights  on  sets  her  mind 
dancing — as  she  said  to  me  once:  'It's  your  mother's 
friends'  bonnets  that  make  me  stand  up  for  divorce!'" 
He  broke  off  abruptly  to  add:  "Good  God,  how  far  off 
all  that  nonsense  seems!" 


IV 


THE  next  day  we  started  for  Rechamp,  not  sure  if 
we  could  get  through,  but  bound  to,  anyhow!  It 
was  the  coldest  day  we'd  had,  the  sky  steel,  the  earth 
iron,  and  a  snow-wind  howling  down  on  us  from  the 
north.  The  Vosges  are  splendid  in  winter.  In  summer  they 
are  just  plump  puddingy  hills;  when  the  wind  strips  them 
they  turn  to  mountains.  And  we  seemed  to  have  the 
whole  country  to  ourselves — the  black  firs,  the  blue 
shadows,  the  beech- woods  cracking  and  groaning  like 


COMING    HOME 

rigging,  the  bursts  of  snowy  sunlight  from  cold  clouds. 
Not  a  soul  in  sight  except  the  sentinels  guarding  the  rail 
ways,  muffled  to  the  eyes,  or  peering  out  of  their  huts  of 
pine-boughs  at  the  cross-roads.  Every  now  and  then  we 
passed  a  long  string  of  seventy-fives,  or  a  train  of  supply 
waggons  or  army  ambulances,  and  at  intervals  a  cavalry 
man  cantered  by,  his  cloak  bellied  out  by  the  gale;  but 
of  ordinary  people  about  the  common  jobs  of  life,  not  a 
sign. 

The  sense  of  loneliness  and  remoteness  that  the  absence 
of  the  civil  population  produces  everywhere  in  eastern 
France  is  increased  by  the  fact  that  all  the  names  and 
distances  on  the  mile-stones  have  been  scratched  out  and 
the  sign-posts  at  the  cross-roads  thrown  down.  It  was 
done,  presumably,  to  throw  the  enemy  off  the  track  in 
September:  and  the  signs  have  never  been  put  back. 
The  result  is  that  one  is  forever  losing  one's  way,  for  the 
soldiers  quartered  in  the  district  know  only  the  names 
of  their  particular  villages,  and  those  on  the  march  can 
tell  you  nothing  about  the  places  they  are  passing  through. 
We  had  got  badly  off  our  road  several  times  during  the 
trip,  but  on  the  last  day's  run  Rechamp  was  in  his  own 
country,  and  knew  every  yard  of  the  way — or  thought 
he  did.  We  had  turned  off  the  main  road,  and  were  run 
ning  along  between  rather  featureless  fields  and  woods, 
crossed  by  a  good  many  wood-roads  with  nothing  to  dis 
tinguish  them;  but  he  continued  to  push  ahead,  saying: 
[  06  1 


COMING    HOME 

"We  don't  turn  till  we  get  to  a  manor-house  on  a  stream, 
with  a  big  paper-mill  across  the  road."  He  went  on  to 
tell  me  that  Lhc  mill-owners  lived  in  the  manor,  and  were 
old  friends  of  his  people:  good  old  local  stock,  who  had 
lived  there  for  generations  and  done  a  lot  for  the  neigh 
bourhood. 

"It's  queer  I  don't  see  their  village-steeple  from  this 
rise.  The  village  is  just  beyond  the  house.  How  the  devil 
could  I  have  missed  the  turn  ?"  We  ran  on  a  little  farther, 
and  suddenly  he  stopped  the  motor  with  a  jerk.  We  were 
at  a  cross-road,  with  a  stream  running  under  the  bank  on 
our  right.  The  place  looked  like  an  abandoned  stoneyard. 
I  never  saw  completer  ruin.  To  the  left,  a  fortified  gate 
gaped  on  emptiness;  to  the  right,  a  mill-wheel  hung  in  the 
stream.  Everything  else  was  as  flat  as  your  dinner-table. 

"Was  this  what  you  were  trying  to  see  from  that 
rise?"  I  asked;  and  I  saw  a  tear  or  two  running  down 
his  face. 

"They  were  the  kindest  people:  their  only  son  got 
himself  shot  the  first  month  in  Champagne — " 

He  had  jumped  out  of  the  car  and  was  standing  staring 
at  the  level  waste.  "The  house  was  there — there  was  a 
splendid  lime  in  the  court.  I  used  to  sit  under  it  and  have 
a  glass  of  vin  gris  de  Lorraine  with  the  old  people.  .  .  . 
Over  there,  where  that  cinder-heap  is,  all  their  children 
are  buried."  He  walked  across  to  the  grave-yard  under  a 
blackened  wall — a  bit  of  the  apse  of  the  vanished  church 
[67] 


COMING    HOME 

— and  sat  down  on  a  grave-stone.  "If  the  devils  have 
done  this  here — so  close  to  us,"  he  burst  out,  and  covered 
his  face. 

An  old  woman  walked  toward  us  down  the  road.  Re- 
champ  jumped  up  and  ran  to  meet  her.  "Why,  Marie- 
Jeanne,  what  are  you  doing  in  these  ruins  ? "  The  old 
woman  looked  at  him  with  unastonished  eyes.  She  seemed 
incapable  of  any  surprise.  "They  left  my  house  standing. 
I'm  glad  to  see  Monsieur,"  she  simply  said.  We  followed 
her  to  the  one  house  left  in  the  waste  of  stones.  It  was  a 
two-roomed  cottage,  propped  against  a  cow-stable,  but 
fairly  decent,  with  a  curtain  in  the  window  and  a  cat  on 
the  sill.  Rechamp  caught  me  by  the  arm  and  pointed  to 
the  door-panel.  "Oberst  von  Scharlach"  was  scrawled 
on  it.  He  turned  as  white  as  your  table-cloth,  and  hung 
on  to  me  a  minute;  then  he  spoke  to  the  old  woman. 
"The  officers  were  quartered  here:  that  was  the  reason 
they  spared  your  house?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes:  I  was  lucky.  But  the  gentlemen 
must  come  in  and  have  a  mouthful." 

Rechamp's  finger  was  on  the  name.  "And  this  one — 
this  was  their  commanding  officer?" 

"I  suppose  so.  Is  it  somebody's  name?"  She  had  evi 
dently  never  speculated  on  the  meaning  of  the  scrawl 
that  had  saved  her. 

"You  remember  him — their  captain?  Was  his  name 
Scharlach?"  Rechamp  persisted. 
[68] 


COMING    HOME  % 

Under  its  rich  weathering  the  old  woman's  face  grew 
as  pale  as  his.  "Yes,  that  was  his  name — I  heard  it  often 
enough." 

"Describe  him,  then.  What  was  he  tike?  Tall  and  fair? 
They're  all  that — but  what  else?  What  in  particular?" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said:  "This  one  wrasn't  fair. 
He  was  dark,  and  had  a  scar  that  drew  up  the  left  corner 
of  his  mouth." 

Rechamp  turned  to  me.  "It's  the  same.  I  heard  the 
men  describing  him  at  Moulins." 

We  followed  the  old  woman  into  the  house,  and  while 
she  gave  us  some  bread  and  wrine  she  told  us  about  the 
wrecking  of  the  village  and  the  factory.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  damnable  stories  I've  heard  yet.  Put  together 
the  worst  of  the  typical  horrors  and  you'll  have  a  fair 
idea  of  it.  Murder,  outrage,  torture:  Scharlach's  pro 
gramme  seemed  to  be  fairly  comprehensive.  She  ended 
off  by  saying:  "His  orderly  showed  me  a  silver-mounted 
flute  he  always  travelled  with,  and  a  beautiful  paint-box 
mounted  in  silver  too.  Before  he  left  he  sat  down  on  my 
door-step  and  made  a  painting  of  the  ruins.  . . ." 

Soon  after  leaving  this  place  of  death  we  got  to  the 
second  lines  and  our  troubles  began.  We  had  to  do  a  lot 
of  talking  to  get  through  the  lines,  but  what  Rechamp 
had  just  seen  had  made  him  eloquent.  Luckily,  too,  the 
ambulance  doctor,  a  charming  fellow,  was  short  of  tetanus- 
serum,  and  I  had  some  left;  and  while  I  went  over  with 
[69] 


COMING    HOME 

him  to  tlie  pine-branch  hut  where  he  hid  his  wounded  I 
explained  Rechamp's  case,  and  implored  him  to  get  us 
through.  Finally  it  was  settled  that  we  should  leave  the 
ambulance  there — tor  in  the  lines  the  ban  against  motors 
is  absolute — and  drive  the  remaining  twelve  miles.  A 
sergeant  fished  out  of  a  farmhouse  a  toothless  old  woman 
with  a  furry  horse  harnessed  to  a  two-wheeled  trap,  and 
we  started  off  by  round-about  wood-tracks.  The  horse 
was  in  no  hurry,  nor  the  old  lady  either;  for  there  were 
bits  of  road  that  were  pretty  steadily  currycombed  by 
shell,  and  it  was  to  everybody's  interest  not  to  cross  them 
before  twilight.  Jean  de  Rechamp's  excitement  seemed  to 
have  dropped:  he  sat  beside  me  dumb  as  a  fish,  staring 
straight  ahead  of  him.  I  didn't  feel  talkative  either,  for 
a  word  the  doctor  had  let  drop  had  left  me  thinking. 
"That  poor  old  granny  mind  the  shells?  Not  she!"  he 
had  said  when  our  crazy  chariot  drove  up.  "She  doesn't 
know  them  from  snow-flakes  any  more.  Nothing  matters 
to  her  now,  except  trying  to  outwit  a  German.  They're  all 
like  that  where  Scharlach's  been — you've  heard  of  him  ? 
She  had  only  one  boy — half-witted:  he  cocked  a  broom- 
handle  at  them,  and  they  burnt  him.  Oh,  she'll  take  you 
to  Rechamp  safe  enough." 

"Where  Scharlach's  been" — so  he  had  been  as  close 

as  this  to  Rechamp !  I  was  wondering  if  Jean  knew  it, 

and  if  that  had  sealed  his  lips  and  given  him  that  flinty 

profile.  The  old  horse's  woolly  flanks  jogged  on  under  the 

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bare  branches  and  the  old  woman's  bent  back  jogged  in 
time  with  it.  She  never  once  spoke  or  looked  around  at 
us.  "It  isn't  the  noise  we  make  that'll  give  us  away,"  I 
said  at  last;  and  just  then  the  old  woman  turned  her  head 
and  pointed  silently  with  the  osier-twig  she  used  as  a 
whip.  Just  ahead  of  us  lay  a  heap  of  ruins:  the  wreck, 
apparently,    of   a   great   chateau   and   its    dependencies. 
"Lermont!"    Rechamp    exclaimed,    turning    white.    He 
made  a  motion  to  jump  out  and  then  dropped  back  into 
the  seat.   "What's   the  use?"   he   muttered.   He  leaned 
forward  and  touched  the  old  woman's  shoulder. 
"I  hadn't  heard  of  this— when  did  it  happen?" 
"In  September." 
"They  did  it?" 

"Yes.  Our  wounded  were  there.  It's  like  this  every 
where  in  our  country." 

I  saw  Jean  stiffening  himself  for  the  next  question. 
"At  Rechamp,  too?"  < 

She  relapsed  into  indifference.  "I  haven't  been  as  far 
as  Rechamp." 

"But  you  must  have  seen  people  who'd  been  there — 
you  must  have  heard." 

"I've  heard  the  masters  were  still  there — so  there  must 
be  something  standing.  Maybe  though,"  she  reflected, 
"they're  in  the  cellars.  .  .  ." 

We  continued  to  jog  on  through  the  dusk. 


[71] 


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HERE'S  the  steeple!"  Rechamp  burst  out. 

Through  the  dimness  I  couldn't  tell  which  way  to 
look;  but  I  suppose  in  the  thickest  midnight  he  would 
have  known  where  he  was.  He  jumped  from  the  trap  and 
took  the  old  horse  by  the  bridle.  I  made  out  that  he  was 
guiding  us  into  a  long  village  street  edged  by  houses  in 
which  every  light  was  extinguished.  The  snow  on  the 
ground  sent  up  a  pale  reflection,  and  I  began  to  see  the 
gabled  outline  of  the  houses  and  the  steeple  at  the  head 
of  the  street.  The  place  seemed  as  calm  and  unchanged 
as  if  the  sound  of  war  had  never  reached  it.  In  the  open 
space  at  the  end  of  the  village  Rechamp  checked  the 
horse. 

"The  elm — there's  the  old  elm  in  front  of  the  church !" 
he  shouted  in  a  voice  like  a  boy's.  He  ran  back  and  caught 
me  by  both  hands. "  It  was  true,  then — nothing's  touched  ! " 
The  old  woman  asked:  "Is  this  Rechamp?"  and  he  went 
back  to  the  horse's  head  and  turned  the  trap  toward  a 
tall  gate  between  park  walls.  The  gate  was  barred  and 
padlocked,  and  not  a  gleam  showed  through  the  shutters 
of  the  porter's  lodge;  but  Rechamp,  after  listening  a  min 
ute  or  two,  gave  a  low  call  twice  repeated,  and  presently 
the  lodge  door  opened,  and  an  old  man  peered  out.  Well 
—I  leave  you  to  brush  in  the  rest.  Old  family  servant, 
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tears  and  hugs  and  so  on.  I  know  you  affect  to  scorn  the 
cinema,  and  this  was  it,  tremolo  and  all.  Hang  it!  This 
war's  going  to  teach  us  not  to  be  afraid  of  the  ob 
vious. 

We  piled  into  the  trap  and  drove  down  a  long  avenue 
to  the  house.  Black  as  the  grave,  of  course;  but  in  another 
minute  the  door  opened,  and  there,  in  the  hall,  was  an 
other  servant,  screening  a  light — and  then  more  doors 
opened  on  another  cinema-scene:  fine  old  drawing-room 
with  family  portraits,  shaded  lamp,  domestic  group  about 
the  fire.  They  evidently  thought  it  was  the  servant  com 
ing  to  announce  dinner,  and  not  a  head  turned  at  our 
approach.  I  could  see  them  all  over  Jean's  shoulder:  a 
grey-haired  lady  knitting  with  stiff  fingers,  an  old  gentle 
man  with  a  high  nose  and  a  weak  chin  sitting  in  a  big 
carved  armchair  and  looking  more  like  a  portrait  than  the 
portraits;  a  pretty  girl  at  his  feet,  with  a  dog's  head  in 
her  lap,  and  another  girl,  who  had  a  Red  Cross  on  her 
sleeve,  at  the  table  with  a  book.  She  had  been  reading 
aloud  in  a  rich  veiled  voice,  and  broke  off  her  last  phrase 
to  say:  "Dinner.  . .  ."  Then  she  looked  up  and  saw  Jean. 
Her  dark  face  remained  perfectly  calm,  but  she  lifted  her 
hand  in  a  just  perceptible  gesture  of  warning,  and  instantly 
understanding  he  drew  back  and  pushed  the  servant  for 
ward  in  his  place. 

"Madame  la  Comtesse — it  is  some  one  outside  asking 
for  Mademoiselle." 

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The  dark  girl  jumped  up  and  ran  out  into  the  hall.  I 
remember  wondering:  "Is  it  because  she  wants  to  have 
him  to  herself  first — or  because  she's  afraid  of  their  being 
startled?"  I  wished  myself  out  of  the  way,  but  she  took 
no  notice  of  me,  and  going  straight  to  Jean  flung  her  arms 
about  him.  I  was  behind  him  and  could  see  her  hands 
about  his  neck,  and  her  brown  fingers  tightly  locked. 
There  wasn't  much  doubt  about  those  two.  . . . 

The  next  minute  she  caught  sight  of  me,  and  I  was 
being  rapidly  tested  by  a  pair  of  the  finest  eyes  I  ever 
saw — I  don't  apply  the  term  to  their  setting,  though  that 
was  fine  too,  but  to  the  look  itself,  a  look  at  once  warm 
and  resolute,  all-promising  and  all-penetrating.  I  really 
can't  do  with  fewer  adjectives. . . . 

Rechamp  explained  me,  and  she  was  full  of  thanks  and 
welcome;  not  excessive,  but — well,  I  don't  know — elo 
quent  !  She  gave  every  intonation  all  it  could  carry,  and 
without  the  least  emphasis:  that's  the  wonder. 

She  went  back  to  "prepare"  the  parents,  as  they  say 
in  melodrama;  and  in  a  minute  or  two  we  followed.  What 
struck  me  first  was  that  these  insignificant  and  inade 
quate  people  had  the  command  of  the  grand  gesture — 
had  la  ligne.  The  mother  had  laid  aside  her  knitting — not 
dropped  it — and  stood  waiting  with  open  arms.  But  even 
in  clasping  her  son  she  seemed  to  include  me  in  her  wel 
come.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  it;  but  they  never 
let  me  feel  I  was  in  the  way.  I  suppose  that's  part  of  what 
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you  call  distinction;  knowing  instinctively  how  to  deal 
with  unusual  moments. 

All  the  while,  I  was  looking  about  me  at  the  fine  secure 
old  room,  in  which  nothing  seemed  altered  or  disturbed, 
the  portraits  smiling  from  the  walls,  the  servants  beam 
ing  in  the  doorway — and  wondering  how  such  things 
could  have  survived  in  the  trail  of  death  and  havoc  we 
had  been  following. 

The  same  thought  had  evidently  struck  Jean,  for  he 
dropped  his  sister's  hand  and  turned  to  gaze  about  him 
too. 

"Then  nothing's  touched — nothing  ?  I  don't  under 
stand,"  he  stammered. 

Monsieur  de  Rechamp  raised  himself  majestically  from 
his  chair,  crossed  the  room  and  lifted  Yvonne  Male's 
hand  to  his  lips.  "Nothing  is  touched — thanks  to  this 
hand  and  this  brain." 

Madame  de  Rechamp  was  shining  on  her  son  through 
tears.  "Ah,  yes — we  owe  it  all  to  Yvonne." 

"All,  all !  Grandmamma  will  tell  you !"  Simone  chimed 
in;  and  Yvonne,  brushing  aside  their  praise  with  a  half- 
impatient  laugh,  said  to  her  betrothed :  "  But  your  grand 
mother  !  You  must  go  up  to  her  at  once." 

A  wonderful  specimen,  that  grandmother:  I  was  taken 
to  see  her  after  dinner.  She  sat  by  the  fire  in  a  bare  pan 
elled  bedroom,  bolt  upright  in  an  armchair  with  ears,  a 
knitting-table  at  her  elbow  with  a  shaded  candle  on  its 


COMING    HOME 

She  was  even  more  withered  and  ancient  than  she  looked 
in  her  photograph,  and  I  judge  she'd  never  been  pretty; 
but  she  somehow  made  me  feel  as  if  I'd  got  through  with 
prettiness.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  she  reminded  me 
of:  a  dried  bouquet,  or  something  rich  and  clovy  that 
had  turned  brittle  through  long  keeping  in  a  sandal- wood 
box.  I  suppose  her  sandal- wood  box  had  been  Good  So 
ciety.  Well,  I  had  a  rare  evening  with  her.  Jean  and  his 
parents  were  called  down  to  see  the  cure,  who  had  hur 
ried  over  to  the  chateau  when  he  heard  of  the  young  man's 
arrival;  and  the  old  lady  asked  me  to  stay  on  and  chat 
with  her.  She  related  their  experiences  with  uncanny  de 
tachment,  seeming  chiefly  to  resent  the  indignity  of  hav 
ing  been  made  to  descend  into  the  cellar — "to  avoid 
French  shells,  if  you'll  believe  it:  the  Germans  had  the 
decency  not  to  bombard  us,"  she  observed  impartially. 
I  was  so  struck  by  the  absence  of  rancour  in  her  tone 
that  finally,  out  of  sheer  curiosity,  I  made  an  allusion  to 
the  horror  of  having  the  enemy  under  one's  roof.  "Oh, 
I  might  almost  say  I  didn't  see  them,"  she  returned.  "I 
never  go  downstairs  any  longer;  and  they  didn't  do  me 
the  honour  of  coming  beyond  my  door.  A  glance  sufficed 
them — an  old  woman  like  me!"  she  added  with  a  phos 
phorescent  gleam  of  coquetry. 

"But  they  searched  the  chateau,  surely?" 
"Oh,  a  mere  form;  they  were  very  decent — very  de 
cent,"   she  almost  snapped   at  me.   "There  was  a  first 
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moment,  of  course,  when  we  feared  it  might  be  hard  to 
get  Monsieur  de  Rechamp  away  with  my  young  grand 
son;  but  Mile.  Malo  managed  that  very  cleverly.  They 
slipped  off  while  the  officers  were  dining."  She  looked  at 
me  with  the  smile  of  some  arch  old  lady  in  a  Louis  XV 
pastel.  "My  grandson  Jean's  fiancee  is  a  very  clever 
young  woman:  in  my  time  no  young  girl  would  have  been 
so  sure  of  herself,  so  cool  and  quick.  After  all,  there  is 
something  to  be  said  for  the  new  way  of  bringing  up 
girls.  My  poor  daughter-in-law,  at  Yvonne's  age,  was  a 
bleating  baby:  she  is  so  still,  at  times.  The  convent  doesn't 
develop  character.  I'm  glad  Yvonne  was  not  brought  up 
in  a  convent."  And  this  champion  of  tradition  smiled  on 
me  more  intensely. 

Little  by  little  I  got  from  her  the  story  of  the  German 
approach:  the  distracted  fugitives  pouring  in  from  the 
villages  north  of  Rechamp,  the  sound  of  distant  cannon 
ading,  and  suddenly,  the  next  afternoon,  after  a  reassur 
ing  lull,  the  sight  of  a  single  spiked  helmet  at  the  end  of 
the  drive.  In  a  few  minutes  a  dozen  followed:  mostly 
officers;  then  all  at  once  the  place  hummed  with  them. 
There  were  supply  waggons  and  motors  in  the  court, 
.bundles  of  hay,  stacks  of  rifles,  artillery-men  unharness 
ing  and  rubbing  down  their  horses.  The  crowd  was  hot 
and  thirsty,  and  in  a  moment  the  old  lady,  to  her  amaze 
ment,  saw  wine  arid  cider  being  handed  about  by  the  Re- 
champ  servants.  "Or  so  at  least  I  was  told,"  she  added, 
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correcting  herself,  "for  it's  not  my  habit  to  look  out  of 
the  window.  I  simply  sat  here  and  waited."  Her  seat,  as 
she  spoke,  might  have  been  a  curule  chair. 

Downstairs,  it  appeared,  Mile.  Malo  had  instantly 
taken  her  measures.  She  didn't  sit  and  wait.  Surprised  in 
the  garden  with  Simone,  she  had  made  the  girl  walk 
quietly  back  to  the  house  and  receive  the  officers  with 
her  on  the  doorstep.  The  officer  in  command — captain, 
or  whatever  he  was — had  arrived  in  a  bad  temper,  cursing 
and  swearing,  and  growling  out  menaces  about  spies. 
The  day  was  intensely  hot,  and  possibly  he  had  had  too 
much  wine.  At  any  rate  Mile.  Malo  had  known  how  to 
"put  him  in  his  place";  and  when  he  and  the  other  offi 
cers  entered  they  found  the  dining-table  set  out  with  re 
freshing  drinks  and  cigars,  melons,  strawberries  and  iced 
coffee.  "The  clever  creature!  She  even  remembered  that 
they  liked  whipped  cream  with  their  coffee!" 

The  effect  had  been  miraculous.  The  captain — what 
was  his  name?  Yes,  Chariot,  Chariot — Captain  Chariot 
had  been  specially  complimentary  on  the  subject  of  the 
whipped  cream  and  the  cigars.  Then  he  asked  to  see  the 
other  members  of  the  family,  and  Mile.  Malo  told  him 
there  were  only  two — two  old  women!  "He  made  a  face 
at  that,  and  said  all  the  same  he  should  like  to  meet 
them;  and  she  answered:  'One  is  your  hostess,  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Rechamp,  who  is  ill  in  bed ' — for  my  poor  daugh 
ter-in-law  was  lying  in  bed  paralyzed  with  rheumatism — 
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*and  the  other  her  mother-in-law,  a  very  old  lady  who 
never  leaves  her  room.'" 

"But  aren't  there  any  men  in  the  family?"  he  had  then 
asked;  and  she  had  said:  "Oh  yes — two.  The  Comte  de 
Rechamp  and  his  son." 

"And  where  are  they?" 

"In  England.  Monsieur  de  Rechamp  went  a  month 
ago  to  take  his  son  on  a  trip." 

The  officer  said:  "I  was  told  they  were  here  to-day"; 
and  Mile.  Malo  replied:  "You  had  better  have  the  house 
searched  and  satisfy  yourself." 

He  laughed  and  said:  "The  idea  had  occurred  to  me." 
She  laughed  also,  and  sitting  down  at  the  piano  struck  a 
few  chords.  Captain  Chariot,  who  had  his  foot  on  the 
threshold,  turned  back — Simone  had  described  the  scene 
to  her  grandmother  afterward.  "Some  of  the  brutes,  it 
seems,  are  musical,"  the  old  lady  explained;  "and  this 
was  one  of  them.  While  he  was  listening,  some  soldiers 
appeared  in  the  court  carrying  another  who  seemed  to  be 
wounded.  It  turned  out  afterward  that  he'd  been  climb 
ing  a  garden  wall  after  fruit,  and  cut  himself  on  the 
broken  glass  at  the  top;  but  the  blood  was  enough — they 
raised  the  usual  dreadful  outcry  about  an  ambush,  and  a 
lieutenant  clattered  into  the  room  where  Mile.  Malo  sat 
playing  Stravinsky."  The  old  lady  paused  for  her  effect, 
and  I  was  conscious  of  giving  her  all  she  wanted. 

"Well—?" 

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"Will  you  believe  it?  It  seems  she  looked  at  her  watch- 
bracelet  and  said:  'Do  you  gentlemen  dress  for  dinner? 
7  do — but  we've  still  time  for  a  little  Moussorgsky' — or 
whatever  wild  names  they  call  themselves — 'if  you'll 
make  those  people  outside  hold  their  tongues.'  Our  cap 
tain  looked  at  her  again,  laughed,  gave  an  order  that  sent 
the  lieutenant  right  about,  and  sat  down  beside  her  at  the 
piano.  Imagine  my  stupour,  dear  sir :  the  drawing-room  is 
directly  under  this  room,  and  in  a  moment  I  heard  two 
voices  coming  up  to  me.  Well,  I  won't  conceal  from  you 
that  his  was  the  finest.  But  then  I  always  adored  a  bary 
tone."  She  folded  her  shrivelled  hands  among  their  laces. 
"After  that,  the  Germans  were  tres  bicn — ires  bien.  They 
stayed  two  days,  and  there  was  nothing  to  complain  of. 
Indeed,  when  the  second  detachment  came,  a  week  later, . 
they  never  even  entered  the  gates.  Orders  had  been  left 
that  they  should  be  quartered  elsewhere.  Of  course  we 
were  lucky  in  happening  on  a  man  of  the  world  like  Cap 
tain  Chariot." 

"Yes,  very  lucky.  It's  odd,  though,  his  having  a  French 
name." 

"Very.  It  probably  accounts  for  his  breeding,"  she  an 
swered  placidly;  and  left  me  marvelling  at  the  happy  re 
moteness  of  old  age. 


[80] 


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VI 


'"T^HE  next  morning  early  Jean  de  Rechamp  came  to 
-*•  my  room.  I  was  struck  at  once  by  the  change  in 
him:  he  had  lost  his  first  glow,  and  seemed  nervous  and 
hesitating.  I  knew  what  he  had  come  for:  to  ask  me  to 
postpone  our  departure  for  another  twenty-four  hours. 
By  rights  we  should  have  been  off  that  morning;  but  there 
had  been  a  sharp  brush  a  few  kilometres  away,  and  a 
couple  of  poor  devils  had  been  brought  to  the  chateau 
whom  it  would  have  been  death  to  carry  farther  that  day 
and  criminal  not  to  hurry  to  a  base  hospital  the  next 
morning.  "We've  simply  got  to  stay  till  to-morrow:  you're 
in  luck,"  I  said  laughing. 

He  laughed  back,  but  with  a  frown  that  made  me  feel 
I  had  been  a  brute  to  speak  in  that  way  of  a  respite  due 
to  such  a  cause. 

"The  men  will  pull  through,  you  know — trust  Mile. 
Malo  for  that!"  I  said. 

His  frown  did  not  lift.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
drummed  on  the  pane. 

"Do  you  see  that  breach  in  the  wall,  down  there  be 
hind  the  trees  ?  It's  the  only  scratch  the  place  has  got.  And 
think  of  Lermont!  It's  incredible — simply  incredible!" 

"But  it's  like  that  everywhere,  isn't  it?  Everything 
depends  on  the  officer  in  command." 
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"Yes:  that's  it,  I  suppose.  I  haven't  had  time  to  get  a 
consecutive  account  of  what  happened:  they're  all  too 
excited.  Mile.  Malo  is  the  only  person  who  can  tell  me 
exactly  how  things  went."  He  swung  about  on  me.  "Look 
here,  it  sounds  absurd,  what  I'm  asking;  but  try  to  get 
me  an  hour  alone  with  her,  will  you?" 

I  stared  at  the  request,  and  he  went  on,  still  half- 
laughing:  "You  see,  they  all  hang  on  me;  my  father  and 
mother,  Simone,  the  cure,  the  servants.  The  whole  vil 
lage  is  coming  up  presently:  they  want  to  stuff  their  eyes 
full  of  me.  It's  natural  enough,  after  living  here  all  these 
long  months  cut  off  from  everything.  But  the  result  is 
I  haven't  said  two  words  to  her  yet." 

"Well,  you  shall,"  I  declared;  and  with  an  easier  smile 
he  turned  to  hurry  down  to  a  mass  of  thanksgiving  which 
the  cure  was  to  celebrate  in  the  private  chapel.  "My 
parents  wanted  it,"  he  explained;  "and  after  that  the 
whole  village  will  be  upon  us.  But  later — " 

"Later  I'll  effect  a  diversion;  I  swear  I  will,"  I  assured 
him. 

By  daylight,  decidedly,  Mile.  Malo  was  less  handsome 
than  in  the  evening.  It  was  my  first  thought  as  she  came 
toward  me,  that  afternoon,  under  the  limes.  Jean  was 
still  indoors,  with  his  people,  receiving  the  village;  I  rather 
wondered  she  hadn't  stayed  there  with  him.  Theoretically, 
her  place  was  at  his  side;  but  I  knew  she  was  a  young 
[82] 


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woman  who  didn't  live  by  rule,  and  she  had  already 
struck  me  as  having  a  distaste  for  superfluous  expenditures 
of  feeling. 

Yes,  she  was  less  effective  by  day.  She  looked  older 
for  one  thing;  her  face  was  pinched,  and  a  little  sallow 
and  for  the  first  time  I  noticed  that  her  cheek-bones  were 
too  high.  Her  eyes,  too,  had  lost  their  velvet  depth:  fine 
eyes  still,  but  not  unfathomable.  But  the  smile  with  which 
she  greeted  me  was  charming:  it  ran  over  her  tired  face 
like  a  lamp-lighter  kindling  flames  as  he  runs. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,"  she  said.  "Shall  we  have  a 
little  talk?  The  reception  is  sure  to  last  another  hour: 
every  one  of  the  villagers  is  going  to  tell  just  what  hap 
pened  to  him  or  her  when  the  Germans  came." 

"And  you've  run  away  from  the  ceremony?" 

"I'm  a  trifle  tired  of  hearing  the  same  adventures  re 
told,"  she  said,  still  smiling. 

"But  I  thought  there  were  no  adventures — that  that 
was  the  wonder  of  it?" 

She  shrugged.  "It  makes  their  stories  a  little  dull,  at 
any  rate;  we've  not  a  hero  or  a  martyr  to  show."  She  had 
strolled  farther  from  the  house  as  we  talked,  leading  me 
in  the  direction  of  a  bare  horse-chestnut  walk  that  led 
toward  the  park. 

"Of  course  Jean's  got  to  listen  to  it  all,  poor  boy;  but 
7  needn't,"  she  explained. 

I  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  answer  and  we  walked 


COMING    HOME 

on  a  little  way  in  silence;  then  she  said:  "If  you'd  carried 
him  off  this  morning  he  would  have  escaped  all  this  fuss." 
After  a  pause  she  added  slowly:  "On  the  whole,  it  might 
have  been  as  well." 

"To  carry  him  off?" 

"Yes."  She  stopped  and  looked  at  me.  "I  wish  you 
would" 

"Would?— Now?" 

"Yes,  now:  as  soon  as  you  can.  He's  really  not  strong 
yet — he's  drawn  and  nervous."  ("So  are  you,"  I  thought.) 
"And  the  excitement  is  greater  than  you  can  perhaps 
imagine — 

I  gave  her  back  her  look.  "Why,  I  think  I  can  imag 
ine.  ..." 

She  coloured  up  through  her  sallow  skin  and  then 
laughed  away  her  blush.  "Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  excite 
ment  of  seeing  me !  But  his  parents,  his  grandmother,  the 
cure,  all  the  old  associations — " 

I  considered  for  a  moment;  then  I  said:  "As  a  matter 
of  fact,  you're  about  the  only  person  he  hasn't  seen." 

She  checked  a  quick  answer  on  her  lips,  and  for  a 
moment  or  two  we  faced  each  other  silently.  A  sudden 
sense  of  intimacy,  of  complicity  almost,  came  over  me. 
What  was  it  that  the  girl's  silence  was  crying  out  to  me  ? 

"If  I  take  him  away  now  he  won't  have  seen  you  at 
all,"  I  continued. 

She  stood  under  the  bare  trees,  keeping  her  eyes  on 
[84] 


COMING    HOME 

me.  "Then  take  him  away  now!"  she  retorted;  and  as 
she  spoke  I  saw  her  face  change,  decompose  into  deadly 
apprehension  and  as  quickly  regain  its  usual  calm.  From 
where  she  stood  she  faced  the  courtyard,  and  glancing  in 
the  same  direction  I  saw  the  throng  of  villagers  coming 
out  of  the  chateau.  "Take  him  away — take  him  away 
at  once!"  she  passionately  commanded;  and  the  next 
minute  Jean  de  Rechamp  detached  himself  from  the  group 
and  began  to  limp  down  the  walk  in  our  direction. 

What  was  I  to  do?  I  can't  exaggerate  the  sense  of  ur 
gency  Mile.  Malo's  appeal  gave  me,  or  my  faith  in  her 
sincerity.  No  one  who  had  seen  her  meeting  with  Rechamp 
the  night  before  could  have  doubted  her  feeling  for  him: 
if  she  wanted  him  away  it  was  not  because  she  did  not 
delight  in  his  presence.  Even  now,  as  he  approached,  I 
saw  her  face  veiled  by  a  faint  mist  of  emotion:  it  was  like 
watching  a  fruit  ripen  under  a  midsummer  sun.  But  she 
turned  sharply  from  the  house  and  began  to  walk  on. 

"Can't  you  give  me  a  hint  of  your  reason ?"  I  suggested 
as  I  followed. 

"My  reason?  I've  given  it!"  I  suppose  I  looked  in 
credulous,  for  she  added  in  a  lower  voice:  "I  don't  want 
him  to  hear — yet — about  all  the  horrors." 

"The  horrors?  I  thought  there  had  been  none  here." 

"All  around  us — "  Her  voice  became  a  whisper.  "Our 
friends . . .  our  neighbours . . .  every  one " 

"He  can  hardly  avoid  hearing  of  that,  can  he?  Arid 
[80] 


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besides,  since  you're  all  safe  and  happy.  .  .  .  Look  here," 
I  broke  off,  "he's  coming  after  us.  Don't  we  look  as  if  we 
were  running  away?" 

She  turned  around,  suddenly  paler;  and  in  a  stride  or 
two  Rechamp  was  at  our  side.  He  was  pale  too;  and  be 
fore  I  could  find  a  pretext  for  slipping  away  he  had  begun 
to  speak.  But  I  saw  at  once  that  he  didn't  know  or  care 
if  I  was  there. 

"What  was  the  name  of  the  officer  in  command  who 
was  quartered  here?"  he  asked,  looking  straight  at  the 
girl. 

She  raised  her  eye-brows  slightly.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  after  listening  for  three  hours  to  every  inhabi 
tant  of  Rechamp  you  haven't  found  that  out?" 

"They  all  call  him  something  different.  My  grand 
mother  says  he  had  a  French  name:  she  calls  him  Chariot." 

"Your  grandmother  was  never  taught  German:  his 
name  was  the  Oberst  von  Scharlach."  She  did  not  remem 
ber  my  presence  either:  the  two  were  still  looking  straight 
in  each  other's  eyes. 

Rechamp  had  grown  white  to  the  lips:  he  was  rigid 
with  the  effort  to  control  himself. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  it  was  Scharlach  who  was 
here?"  he  brought  out  at  last  in  a  low  voice. 

She  turned  her  eyes  in  my  direction.  "I  was  just  ex 
plaining  to  Mr.  Greer — " 

"To  Mr.  Greer?"  He  looked  at  me  too,  half-angrily. 
[86] 


COMING    HOME 

"I  know  the  stories  that  are  about,"  she  continued 
quietly;  "and  I  was  saying  to  your  friend  that,  since  we 
had  been  so  happy  as  to  be  spared,  it  seemed  useless  to 
dwell  on  what  has  happened  elsewhere." 

"Damn  what  happened  elsewhere!  I  don't  yet  know 
what  happened  here." 

I  put  a  hand  on  his  arm.  Mile.  Malo  was  looking  hard 
at  me,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her  see  I  knew  it.  "I'm  going 
to  leave  you  to  hear  the  whole  story  now,"  I  said  to 
Rechamp. 

"But  there  isn't  any  story  for  him  to  hear !"  she  broke 
in.  She  pointed  at  the  serene  front  of  the  chateau,  looking 
out  across  its  gardens  to  the  unscarred  fields.  "We're  safe; 
the  place  is  untouched.  Why  brood  on  other  horrors — 
horrors  we  were  powerless  to  help?" 

Rechamp  held  his  ground  doggedly.  "But  the  man's 
name  is  a  curse  and  an  abomination.  Wherever  he  went 
he  spread  ruin." 

"So  they  say.  Mayn't  there  be  a  mistake?  Legends 
grow  up  so  quickly  in  these  dreadful  times.  Here — "  she 
looked  about  her  again  at  the  peaceful  scene — "here  he 
behaved  as  you  see.  For  heaven's  sake  be  content  with 
that!" 

"Content?"  He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 
"I'm  blind  with  joy... or  should  be,  if  only..." 

She  looked  at  me  entreatingly,  almost  desperately,  and 
I  took  hold  of  Rechamp's  arm  with  a  warning  pressure. 
[87] 


COMING    HOME 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  you  see  that  Mile.  Malo  has  been 
under  a  great  strain  ?  La  joie  fait  peur — that's  the  trouble 
with  both  of  you!" 

He  lowered  his  head.  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  is."  He  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  Greer's 
right:  we're  both  on  edge." 

"Yes:  I'll  leave  you  for  a  little  while,  if  you  and  Mr 
Greer  will  excuse  me."  She  included  us  both  in  a  quiet 
look  that  seemed  to  me  extremely  noble,  and  walked 
slowly  away  toward  the  chateau.  Rechamp  stood  gazing 
after  her  for  a  moment;  then  he  dropped  down  on  one  of 
the  benches  at  the  edge  of  the  path.  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  "Scharlach — Scharlach!"  I  heard  him 
repeat. 

We  sat  there  side  by  side  for  ten  minutes  or  more  with 
out  speaking.  Finally  I  said:  "Look  here,  Rechamp — 
she's  right  and  you're  wrong.  I  shall  be  sorry  I  brought 
you  here  if  you  don't  see  it  before  it's  too  late." 

His  face  was  still  hidden;  but  presently  he  dropped  his 
hands  and  answered  me.  "I  do  see.  She's  saved  every 
thing  for  me — my  people  and  my  house,  and  the  ground 
we're  standing  on.  And  I  worship  it  because  she  walks  on 
it!" 

"And  so  do  your  people:  the  war's  done  that  for  you, 
anyhow,"  I  reminded  him. 


88 


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VII 


^T^HE  morning  after  we  were  off  before  dawn.  Our 
•*•  time  allowance  was  up,  and  it  was  thought  advisa 
ble,  on  account  of  our  wounded,  to  slip  across  the  exposed 
bit  of  road  in  the  dark. 

Mile.  Malo  was  downstairs  when  we  started,  pale  in 
her  white  dress,  but  calm  and  active.  We  had  borrowed  a 
farmer's  cart  in  which  our  two  men  could  be  laid  on  a 
mattress,  and  she  had  stocked  our  trap  with  food  and 
remedies.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  been  forgotten.  While 
I  was  settling  the  men  I  suppose  Rechamp  turned  back 
into  the  hall  to  bid  her  good-bye;  anyhow,  when  she  fol 
lowed  him  out  a  moment  later  he  looked  quieter  and  less 
strained.  He  had  taken  leave  of  his  parents  and  his  sister 
upstairs,  and  Yvonne  Malo  stood  alone  in  the  dark  door 
way,  watching  us  as  we  drove  away. 

There  was  not  much  talk  between  us  during  our  slow 
drive  back  to  the  lines.  We  had  to  go  at  a  snail's  pace,  for 
the  roads  were  rough;  and  there  was  time  for  meditation. 
I  knew  well  enough  what  my  companion  was  thinking 
about  and  my  own  thoughts  ran  on  the  same  lines. 
Though  the  story  of  the  German  occupation  of  Rechamp 
had  been  retold  to  us  a  dozen  times  the  main  facts  did 
not  vary.  There  were  little  discrepancies  of  detail,  and 
gaps  in  the  narrative  here  and  there;  but  all  the  house- 
[89] 


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hold,  from  the  astute  ancestress  to  the  last  bewildered 
pantry-boy,  were  at  one  in  saying  that  Mile.  Malo's  cool 
ness  and  courage  had  saved  the  chateau  and  the  village. 
The  officer  in  command  had  arrived  full  of  threats  and 
insolence:  Mile.  Malo  had  placated  and  disarmed  him, 
turned  his  suspicions  to  ridicule,  entertained  him  and 
his  comrades  at  dinner,  and  contrived  during  that  time — 
or  rather  while  they  were  making  music  afterward  (which 
they  did  for  half  the  night,  it  seemed) — that  Monsieur 
de  Rechamp  and  Alain  should  slip  out  of  the  cellar  in 
which  they  had  been  hidden,  gain  the  end  of  the  gardens 
through  an  old  hidden  passage,  and  get  off  in  the  dark 
ness.  Meanwhile  Simone  had  been  safe  upstairs  with  her 
mother  and  grandmother,  and  none  of  the  officers  lodged 
in  the  chateau  had — after  a  first  hasty  inspection — set 
foot  in  any  part  of  the  house  but  the  wing  assigned  to 
them.  On  the  third  morning  they  had  left,  and  Schar- 
lach,  before  going,  had  put  in  Mile.  Malo's  hands  a  letter 
requesting  whatever  officer  should  follow  him  to  show 
every  consideration  to  the  family  of  the  Comte  de  Re- 
champ,  and  if  possible — owing  to  the  grave  illness  of  the 
Countess — avoid  taking  up  quarters  in  the  chateau:  a 
request  which  had  been  scrupulously  observed. 

Such   were   the   amazing   but   undisputed   facts   over 

which  Rechamp  and  I,  in  our  different  ways,  were  now 

pondering.  He  hardly  spoke,  and  when  he  did  it  was 

only  to  make  some  casual  reference  to  the  road  or  to  our 

[90] 


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wounded  soldiers;  but  all  the  while  I  sat  at  his  side  I 
kept  hearing  the  echo  of  the  question  he  was  inwardly 
asking  himself,  and  hoping  to  God  he  wouldn't  put  it 
to  me. .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  we  finally  reached  the  lines, 
and  the  men  had  to  have  a  rest  before  we  could  start 
again;  but  a  couple  of  hours  later  we  landed  them  safely 
at  the  base  hospital.  From  there  we  had  intended  to  go 
back  to  Paris;  but  as  we  were  starting  there  came  an  un 
expected  summons  to  another  point  of  the  front,  where 
there  had  been  a  successful  night-attack,  and  a  lot  of 
Germans  taken  in  a  blown-up  trench.  The  place  was  fifty 
miles  away,  and  off  my  beat,  but  the  number  of  wounded 
on  both  sides  was  exceptionally  heavy,  and  all  the  availa 
ble  ambulances  had  already  started.  An  urgent  call  had 
come  for  more,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go; 
so  we  went. 

We  found  things  in  a  bad  mess  at  the  second  line  shanty- 
hospital  where  they  were  dumping  the  wounded  as  fast 
as  they  could  bring  them  in.  At  first  we  were  told  that 
none  were  fit  to  be  carried  farther  that  night;  and  after 
we  had  done  what  we  could  we  went  off  to  hunt  up  a 
shake-down  in  the  village.  But  a  few  minutes  later  an 
orderly  overtook  us  with  a  message  from  the  surgeon. 
There  was  a  German  with  an  abdominal  wound  who 
was  in  a  bad  way,  but  might  be  saved  by  an  operation 
if  he  could  be  got  back  to  the  base  before  midnight. 
[91] 


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Would  we  take  him  at  once  and  then  coine  back  for 
others  ? 

There  is  only  one  answer  to  such  requests,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  we  were  back  at  the  hospital,  and  the 
wounded  man  was  being  carried  out  on  a  stretcher.  In 
the  shaky  lantern  gleam  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  livid 
face  and  a  torn  uniform,  and  saw  that  he  was  an  officer, 
and  nearly  done  for.  Rechamp  had  climbed  to  the  box, 
and  seemed  not  to  be  noticing  what  was  going  on  at  the 
back  of  the  motor.  I  understood  that  he  loathed  the  job, 
and  wanted  not  to  see  the  face  of  the  man  we  were  carry 
ing;  so  when  we  had  got  him  settled  I  jumped  into  the 
ambulance  beside  him  and  called  out  to  Rechamp  that 
we  were  ready.  A  second  later  an  infirmier  ran  up  with  a 
little  packet  and  pushed  it  into  my  hand.  "His  papers," 
he  explained.  I  pocketed  them  and  pulled  the  door  shut, 
and  we  were  off. 

The  man  lay  motionless  on  his  back,  conscious,  but 
desperately  weak.  Once  I  turned  my  pocket-lamp  on  him 
and  saw  that  he  was  young — about  thirty — with  damp 
dark  hair  and  a  thin  face.  He  had  received  a  flesh-wound 
above  the  eyes,  and  his  forehead  was  bandaged,  but  the 
rest  of  the  face  uncovered.  As  the  light  fell  on  him  he 
lifted  his  eyelids  and  looked  at  me:  his  look  was  inscru 
table. 

For  half  an  hour  or  so  I  sat  there  in  the  dark,  the 
sense  of  that  face  pressing  close  on  me.  It  was  a  damnable 
[92] 


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face — meanly  handsome,  basely  proud.  In  my  one  glimpse 
of  it  I  had  seen  that  the  man  was  suffering  atrociously, 
but  as  we  slid  along  through  the  night  he  made  no  sound. 
At  length  the  motor  stopped  with  a  violent  jerk  that 
drew  a  single  moan  from  him.  I  turned  the  light  on  him, 
but  he  lay  perfectly  still,  lips  and  lids  shut,  making  no 
sign;  and  I  jumped  out  and  ran  round  to  the  front  to  see 
what  had  happened. 

The  motor  had  stopped  for  lack  of  gasolene  and  was 
stock  still  in  'the  deep  mud.  Rechamp  muttered  something 
about  a  leak  in  his  tank.  As  he  bent  over  it,  the  lantern 
flame  struck  up  into  his  face,  which  was  set  and  business 
like.  It  struck  me  vaguely  that  he  showed  no  particular 
surprise. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  I  asked. 

"I  think  I  can  tinker  it  up;  but  we've  got  to  have 
more  essence  to  go  on  with." 

I  stared  at  him  in  despair:  it  was  a  good  hour's  walk 
back  to  the  lines,  and  we  weren't  so  sure  of  getting  any 
gasolene  when  we  got  there!  But  there  was  no  help  for 
it;  and  as  Rechamp  was  dead  lame,  no  alternative  but  for 
me  to  go. 

I  opened  the  ambulance  door,  gave  another  look  at  the 
motionless  man  inside  and  took  out  a  remedy  which  I 
handed  over  to  Rechamp  with  a  word  of  explanation. 
"  You  know  how  to  give  a  hypo  ?  Keep  a  close  eye  on  him 
.and  pop  this  in  if  you  see  a  change — not  otherwise." 
[08] 


COMING    HOME 

He  nodded.  "Do  you  suppose  he'll  die?"  he  asked  be 
low  his  breath. 

"No,  I  don't.  If  we  get  him  to  the  hospital  before 
morning  I  think  he'll  pull  through." 

"Oh,  all  right."  He  unhooked  one  of  the  motor  lanterns 
and  handed  it  over  to  me.  "I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said  as  I 
turned  away. 

Getting  back  to  the  lines  through  that  pitch-black  for 
est,  and  finding  somebody  to  bring  the  gasolene  back  for 
me  was  about  the  weariest  job  I  ever  tackled.  I  couldn't 
imagine  why  it  wasn't  daylight  when  we  finally  got  to  the 
place  where  I  had  left  the  motor.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
I  had  been  gone  twelve  hours  when  I  finally  caught  sight 
of  the  grey  bulk  of  the  car  through  the  thinning  darkness. 

Rechamp  came  forward  to  meet  us,  and  took  hold  of 
my  arm  as  I  was  opening  the  door  of  the  car.  "The  man's 
dead,"  he  said. 

I  had  lifted  up  my  pocket-lamp,  and  its  light  fell  on 
Rechamp's  face,  which  was  perfectly  composed,  and 
seemed  less  gaunt  and  drawn  than  at  any  time  since  we 
had  started  on  our  trip. 

"Dead?  Why— how?  What  happened?  Did  you  give 
him  the  hypodermic?"  I  stammered,  taken  aback. 

"No  time  to.  He  died  in  a  minute." 

"How  do  you  know  he  did?  Were  you  with  him?" 

"Of  course  I  was  with  him,"  Rechamp  retorted,  with  a 
sudden  harshness  which  made  me  aware  that  I  had  grown 
[94] 


COMING    HOME 

harsh  myself.  But  I  had  been  almost  sure  the  man  wasn't 
anywhere  near  death  when  I  left  him.  I  opened  the  door 
of  the  ambulance  and  climbed  in  with  my  lantern.  He 
didn't  appear  to  have  moved,  but  he  was  dead  sure 
enough — had  been  for  two  or  three  hours,  by  the  feel  of 
him.  It  must  have  happened  not  long  after  I  left.  . . . 
Well,  I'm  not  a  doctor,  anyhow.  .  .  . 

I  don't  think  Rechamp  and  I  exchanged  a  word  during 
the  rest  of  that  run.  But  it  was  my  fault  and  not  his  if 
we  didn't.  By  the  mere  rub  of  his  sleeve  against  mine  as 
we  sat  side  by  side  on  the  motor  I  knew  he  was  conscious 
of  no  bar  between  us:  he  had  somehow  got  back,  in  the 
night's  interval,  to  a  state  of  wholesome  stolidity,  while  I, 
on  the  contrary,  was  tingling  all  over  with  exposed  nerves. 

I  was  glad  enough  when  we  got  back  to  the  base  at 
last,  and  the  grim  load  we  carried  was  lifted  out  and 
taken  into  the  hospital.  Rechamp  waited  in  the  court 
yard  beside  his  car,  lighting  a  cigarette  in  the  cold  early 
sunlight;  but  I  followed  the  bearers  and  the  surgeon  into 
the  whitewashed  room  where  the  dead  man  was  laid  out 
to  be  undressed.  I  had  a  burning  spot  at  the  pit  of  my 
stomach  while  his  clothes  were  ripped  off  him  and  the 
bandages  undone:  I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  from  the  sur 
geon's  face.  But  the  surgeon,  with  a  big  batch  of  wounded 
on  his  hands,  was  probably  thinking  more  of  the  living 
than  the  dead;  and  besides,  we  were  near  the  front,  and 
the  body  before  him  was  an  enemy's. 
[9.31 


COMING    HOME 

He  finished  his  examination  and  scribbled  something 
in  a  note-book.  "Death  must  have  taken  place  nearly  five 
hours  ago,"  he  merely  remarked:  it  was  the  conclusion  I 
had  already  come  to  myself. 

"And  how  about  the  papers?"  the  surgeon  continued. 
"You  have  them,  I  suppose?  This  way,  please." 

We  left  the  half-stripped  body  on  the  blood-stained 
oil-cloth,  and  he  led  me  into  an  office  where  a  functionary 
sat  behind  a  littered  desk. 

"The  papers  ?  Thank  you.  You  haven't  examined  them  ? 
Let  us  see,  then." 

I  handed  over  the  leather  note-case  I  had  thrust  into 
my  pocket  the  evening  before,  and  saw  for  the  first  time 
its  silver-edged  corners  and  the  coronet  in  one  of  them. 
The  official  took  out  the  papers  and  spread  them  on 
the  desk  between  us.  I  watched  him  absently  while  he 
did  so. 

Suddenly  he  uttered  an  exclamation.  "Ah — that's  a 
haul!"  he  said,  and  pushed  a  bit  of  paper  toward  me. 
On  it  was  engraved  the  name:  Oberst  Graf  Benno  von 
Scharlach.  .  .  . 

"A  good  riddance,"  said  the  surgeon  over  my  shoulder. 

I  went  back  to  the  courtyard  and  saw  Rechamp  still 
smoking  his  cigarette  in  the  cold  sunlight.  I  don't  suppose 
I'd  been  hi  the  hospital  ten  minutes;  but  I  felt  as  old  as 
Methuselah. 

My  friend  greeted  me  with  a  smile.  "Ready  for  break- 
[96] 


COMING    HOME 

fast?"  he  said,  and  a  little  chill  ran  down  my  spine.  .  .  . 
But  I  said:  "Oh,  all  right — come  along.  .  .  ." 

For,  after  all,  I  knew  there  wasn't  a  paper  of  any  sort 
on  that  man  when  he  was  lifted  into  my  ambulance  the 
night  before:  the  French  officials  attend  to  their  business 
too  carefully  for  me  not  to  have  been  sure  of  that.  And 
there  wasn't  the  least  shred  of  evidence  to  prove  that  he 
hadn't  died  of  his  wounds  during  the  unlucky  delay  in 
the  forest;  or  that  Rechamp  had  known  his  tank  was 
leaking  when  we  started  out  from  the  lines. 

"I  could  do  with  a  cafe  complet,  couldn't  you?"  Re- 
champ  suggested,  looking  straight  at  me  with  his  good 
blue  eyes;  and  arm  in  arm  we  started  off  to  hunt  for  the 
inn. . 


[97 


AUTRES    TEMPS 


AUTRES    TEMPS.. 


MRS.  LIDCOTE,  as  the  huge  menacing  mass  of 
New  York  defined  itself  far  off  across  the  waters, 
shrank  back  into  her  corner  of  the  deck  and  sat 
listening  with  a  kind  of  unreasoning  terror  to  the  steady 
onward  drive  of  the  screws. 

She  had  set  out  on  the  voyage  quietly  enough, — in 
what  she  called  her  "reasonable"  mood, — but  the  week 
at  sea  had  given  her  too  much  time  to  think  of  things 
and  had  left  her  too  long  alone  with  the  past. 

When  she  was  alone,  it  was  always  the  past  that  occu 
pied  her.  She  couldn't  get  away  from  it,  and  she  didn't 
any  longer  care  to.  During  her  long  years  of  exile  she  had 
made  her  terms  with  it,  had  learned  to  accept  the  fact 
that  it  would  always  be  there,  huge,  obstructing,  encum 
bering,  bigger  and  more  dominant  than  anything  the 
future  could  ever  conjure  up.  And,  at  any  rate,  she  was 
sure  of  it,  she  understood  it,  knew  how  to  reckon  with  it; 
she  had  learned  to  screen  and  manage  and  protect  it  as 
one  does  an  afflicted  member  of  one's  family. 

There  had  never  been  any  danger  of  her  being  allowed 
[101] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

to  forget  the  past,  it  looked  out  at  her  from  the  face  of 
every  acquaintance,  it  appeared  suddenly  in  the  eyes  of 
strangers  when  a  word  enlightened  them:  "Yes,  the  Mrs. 
Lidcote,  don't  you  know?"  It  had  sprung  at  her  the  first 
day  out,  when,  across  the  dining-room,  from  the  cap 
tain's  table,  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger's  revolving 
eye-glass  pause  and  the  eye  behind  it  grow  as  blank  as 
a  dropped  blind.  The  next  day,  of  course,  the  captain  had 
asked:  "You  know  your  ambassadress,  Mrs.  Boulger?" 
and  she  had  replied  that,  No,  she  seldom  left  Florence, 
and  hadn't  been  to  Rome  for  more  than  a  day  since  the 
Boulgers  had  been  sent  to  Italy.  She  was  so  used  to  these 
phrases  that  it  cost  her  no  effort  to  repeat  them.  And  the 
captain  had  promptly  changed  the  subject. 

No,  she  didn't,  as  a  rule,  mind  the  past,  because  she 
was  used  to  it  and  understood  it.  It  was  a  great  concrete 
fact  in  her  path  that  she  had  to  walk  around  every  time 
she  moved  in  any  direction.  But  now,  in  the  light  of  the 
unhappy  event  that  had  summoned  her  from  Italy, — the 
sudden  unanticipated  news  of  her  daughter's  divorce  from 
Horace  Pursh  and  remarriage  with  Wilbour  Barkley — 
the  past,  her  own  poor  miserable  past,  started  up  at  her 
with  eyes  of  accusation,  became,  to  her  disordered  fancy, 
like  the  afflicted  relative  suddenly  breaking  away  from 
nurses  and  keepers  and  publicly  parading  the  horror  and 
misery  she  had,  all  the  long  years,  so  patiently  screened 
and  secluded. 

[102] 


AUTRES    TEMPS.,. 

Yes,  there  it,  had  stood  before  her  through  the  agitated 
weeks  since  the  news  had  come — during  her  interminable 
journey  from  India,  where  Leila's  letter  had  overtaken 
her,  and  the  feverish  halt  in  her  apartment  in  Florence, 
where  she  had  had  to  stop  and  gather  up  her  possessions 
for  a  fresh  start — there  it  had  stood  grinning  at  her  with 
a  new  balefulness  which  seemed  to  say:  "Oh,  but  you've 
got  to  look  at  me  now,  because  I'm  not  only  your  own 
past  but  Leila's  present." 

Certainly  it  was  a  master-stroke  of  those  arch-ironists 
of  the  shears  and  spindle  to  duplicate  her  own  story  in  her 
daughter's.  Mrs.  Lidcote  had  always  somewhat  grimly 
fancied  that,  having  so  signally  failed  to  be  of  use  to 
Leila  in  other  ways,  she  would  at  least  serve  her  as  a 
warning.  She  had  even  abstained  from  defending  herself, 
from  making  the  best  of  her  case,  had  stoically  refused 
to  plead  extenuating  circumstances,  lest  Leila's  impulsive 
sympathy  should  lead  to  deductions  that  might  react 
disastrously  on  her  own  life.  And  now  that  very  thing  had 
happened,  and  Mrs.  Lidcote  could  hear  the  whole  of  New 
York  saying  with  one  voice:  "Yes,  Leila's  done  just  what 
her  mother  did.  With  such  an  example  what  could  you 
expect?" 

Yet  if  she  had  been  an  example,  poor  woman,  she  had 

been  an  awful  one;  she  had  been,  she  would  have  supposed, 

of  more  use  as  a  deterrent  than  a  hundred  blameless 

mothers  as  incentives.  For  how  could  any  one  who  had 

[103] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

seen  anything  of  her  life  in  the  last  eighteen  years  have 
had  the  courage  to  repeat  so  disastrous  an  experiment  ? 

Well,  logic  in  such  cases  didn't  count,  example  didn't 
count,  nothing  probably  counted  but  having  the  same 
impulses  in  the  blood;  and  that  was  the  dark  inheritance 
she  had  bestowed  upon  her  daughter.  Leila  hadn't  con 
sciously  copied  her;  she  had  simply  "taken  after"  her, 
had  been  a  projection  of  her  own  long-past  rebellion. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  had  deplored,  when  she  started,  that  the 
Utopia  was  a  slow  steamer,  and  would  take  eight  full  days 
to  bring  her  to  her  unhappy  daughter;  but  now,  as  the 
moment  of  reunion  approached,  she  would  willingly  have 
turned  the  boat  about  and  fled  back  to  the  high  seas.  It 
was  not  only  because  she  felt  still  so  unprepared  to  face 
what  New  York  had  in  store  for  her,  but  because  she 
needed  more  time  to  dispose  of  what  the  Utopia  had  al 
ready  given  her.  The  past  was  bad  enough,  but  the  present 
and  future  were  worse,  because  they  were  less  compre 
hensible,  and  because,  as  she  grew  older,  surprises  and  in 
consequences  troubled  her  more  than  the  worst  cer 
tainties. 

There  was  Mrs.  Boulger,  for  instance.  In  the  light,  or 
rather  the  darkness,  of  new  developments,  it  might  really 
be  that  Mrs.  Boulger  had  not  meant  to  cut  her,  but  had 
simply  failed  to  recognize  her.  Mrs.  Lidcote  had  arrived 
at  this  hypothesis  simply  by  listening  to  the  conversation 
of  the  persons  sitting  next  to  her  on  deck — two  lively 
[104] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

young  women  with  the  latest  Paris  hats  on  their  heads 
and  the  latest  New  York  ideas  in  them.  These  ladies,  as 
to  whom  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  a  person  with 
Mrs.  Lidcote's  old-fashioned  categories  to  determine 
whether  they  were  married  or  unmarried,  "nice"  or 
"horrid,"  or  any  one  or  other  of  the  definite  things  which 
young  women,  in  her  youth  and  her  society,  were  con 
veniently  assumed  to  be,  had  revealed  a  familiarity  with 
the  world  of  New  York  that,  again  according  to  Mrs. 
Lidcote's  traditions,  should  have  implied  a  recognized 
place  in  it.  But  in  the  present  fluid  state  of  manners  what 
did  anything  imply  except  what  their  hats  implied — that 
no  one  could  tell  what  was  coming  next? 

They  seemed,  at  any  rate,  to  frequent  a  group  of  idle 
and  opulent  people  who  executed  the  same  gestures  and 
revolved  on  the  same  pivots  as  Mrs.  Lidcote's  daughter 
and  her  friends:  their  Coras,  Matties  and  Mabels  seemed 
at  any  moment  likely  to  reveal  familiar  patronymics,  and 
once  one  of  the  speakers,  summing  up  a  discussion  of 
which  Mrs.  Lidcote  had  missed  the  beginning,  had  af 
firmed  with  headlong  confidence:  "Leila?  Oh,  Leila's  all 
right." 

Could  it  be  her  Leila,  the  mother  had  wondered,  with 
a  sharp  thrill  of  apprehension?  If  only  they  would  men 
tion  surnames  !  But  their  talk  leaped  elliptically  from  allu 
sion  to  allusion,  their  unfinished  sentences  dangled  over 
bottomless  pits  of  conjecture,  and  they  gave  their  bewil- 
[105] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

derecl  licarcr  the  impression  not  so  much  of  talking  only  of 
their  intimates,  as  of  being  intimate  with  every  one  alive. 

Her  old  friend  Franklin  Ide  could  have  told  her,  per 
haps;  but  here  was  the  last  day  of  the  voyage,  and  she 
hadn't  yet  found  courage  to  ask  him.  Great  as  had  been 
the  joy  of  discovering  his  name  on  the  passenger-list 
and  seeing  his  friendly  bearded  face  in  the  throng  against 
the  taffrail  at  Cherbourg,  she  had  as  yet  said  nothing  to 
him  except,  when  they  had  met:  "Of  course  I'm  going 
out  to  Leila." 

She  had  said  nothing  to  Franklin  Ide  because  she  had 
always  instinctively  shrunk  from  taking  him  into  her 
confidence.  She  was  sure  he  felt  sorry  for  her,  sorrier  per 
haps  than  any  one  had  ever  felt;  but  he  had  always  paid 
her  the  supreme  tribute  of  not  showing  it.  His  attitude 
allowed  her  to  imagine  that  compassion  was  not  the  basis 
of  his  feeling  for  her,  and  it  was  part  of  her  joy  in  his 
friendship  that  it  was  the  one  relatio.n  seemingly  uncondi 
tioned  by  her  state,  the  only  one  in  which  she  could  think 
and  feel  and  behave  like  any  other  woman. 

Now,  however,  as  the  problem  of  New  York  loomed 
nearer,  she  began  to  regret  that  she  had  not  spoken,  had 
not  at  least  questioned  him  about  the  hints  she  had 
gathered  on  the  way.  He  did  not  know  the  two  ladies 
next  to  her,  he  did  not  even,  as  it  chanced,  know  Mrs. 
Lorin  Boulger;  but  he  knew  New  York,  and  New  York 
was  the  sphinx  whose  riddle  she  must  read  or  perish. 
[  106  ] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Almost  as  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind  his 
stooping  shoulders  and  grizzled  head  detached  themselves 
against  the  blaze  of  light  in  the  west,  and  he  sauntered 
down  the  empty  deck  and  dropped  into  the  chair  at  her 
side. 

"You're  expecting  the  Barkleys  to  meet  you,  I  sup 
pose?"  he  asked. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  any  one  pronounce 
her  daughter's  new  name,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  her 
friend,  who  was  shy  and  inarticulate,  had  been  trying 
to  say  it  all  the  way  over  and  had  at  last  shot  it  out  at 
her  only  because  he  felt  it  must  be  now  or  never. 

"I  don't  know.  I  cabled,  of  course.  But  I  believe  she's 
at — they're  at — his  place  somewhere." 

"Oh,  Barkley's;  yes,  near  Lenox,  isn't  it?  But  she's 
sure  to  come  to  town  to  meet  you." 

He  said  it  so  easily  and  naturally  that  her  own  con 
straint  was  relieved,  and  suddenly,  before  she  knew  what 
she  meant  to  do,  she  had  burst  out:  "She  may  dislike  the 
idea  of  seeing  people." 

Ide,  whose  absent  short-sighted  gaze  had  been  fixed 
on  the  slowly  gliding  water,  turned  in  his  seat  to  stare  at 
his  companion. 

"Who?  Leila?"  he  said  with  an  incredulous  laugh. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  flushed  to  her  faded  hair  and  grew  pale 
again.  "It  took  me  a  long  time — to  get  used  to  it,"  she 
said. 

[107] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

His  look  grew  gently  commiserating.  "I  think  you'll 
find — "  he  paused  for  a  word — "that  things  are  different 
now — altogether  easier." 

"That's  what  I've  been  wondering — ever  since  we 
started."  She  was  determined  now  to  speak.  She  moved 
nearer,  so  that  their  arms  touched,  and  she  could  drop 
her  voice  to  a  murmur.  "You  see,  it  all  came  on  me  in  a 
flash.  My  going  off  to  India  and  Siam  on  that  long  trip 
kept  me  away  from  letters  for  weeks  at  a  time;  and  she 
didn't  want  to  tell  me  beforehand — oh,  I  understand 
that,  poor  child !  You  know  how  good  she's  always  been 
to  me;  how  she's  tried  to  spare  me.  And  she  knew,  of 
course,  what  a  state  of  horror  I'd  be  in.  She  knew  I'd 
rush  off  to  her  at  once  and  try  to  stop  it.  So  she  never 
gave  me  a  hint  of  anything,  and  she  even  managed  to 
muzzle  Susy  Suffern — you  know  Susy  is  the  one  of  the 
family  who  keeps  me  informed  about  things  at  home.  I 
don't  yet  see  how  she  prevented  Susy's  telling  me;  but 
she  did.  And  her  first  letter,  the  one  I  got  up  at  Bangkok, 
simply  said  the  thing  was  over — the  divorce,  I  mean — 
and  that  the  very  next  day  she'd — well,  I  suppose  there 
was  no  use  waiting;  and  he  seems  to  have  behaved  as  well 
as  possible,  to  have  wanted  to  marry  her  as  much  as — " 

"Who?  Barkley?"  he  helped  her  out.  "I  should  say 
so!  Why  what  do  you  suppose — "  He  interrupted  him 
self.  "He'll  be  devoted  to  her,  I  assure  you." 

"Oh,  of  course;  I'm  sure  he  will.  He's  written  me — 
[108] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

really  beautifully.  But  it's  a  terrible  strain  on  a  man's 
devotion.  I'm  not  sure  that  Leila  realizes — " 

Ide  sounded  again  his  little  reassuring  laugh.  "I'm  not 
sure  that  you  realize.  They're  all  right." 

It  was  the  very  phrase  that  the  young  lady  in  the  next 
seat  had  applied  to  the  unknown  "Leila,"  and  its  recur 
rence  on  Ide's  lips  flushed  Mrs.  Lidcote  with  fresh  courage. 

"I  wish  I  knew  just  what  you  mean.  The  two  young 
women  next  to  me — the  ones  with  the  wonderful  hats — 
have  been  talking  in  the  same  way." 

"What?  About  Leila?" 

"About  a  Leila;  I  fancied  it  might  be  mine.  And  about 
society  in  general.  All  their  friends  seem  to  be  divorced; 
some  of  them  seem  to  announce  their  engagements  before 
they  get  their  decree.  One  of  them — her  name  was  Mabel 
— as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  her  husband  found  out  that 
she  meant  to  divorce  him  by  noticing  that  she  wore  a 
new  engagement-ring." 

"Well,  you  see  Leila  did  everything  *  regularly,'  as  the 
French  say,"  Ide  rejoined. 

"Yes;  but  are  these  people  in  society?  The  people  my 
neighbours  talk  about?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  would  take  an  arbitra 
tion  commission  a  good  many  sittings  to  define  the 
boundaries  of  society  nowadays.  But  at  any  rate  they're 
in  New  York;  and  I  assure  you  you're  not;  you're  farther 
and  farther  from  it." 

[109] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

"But  I've  been  back  there  several  times  to  see  Leila." 
She  hesitated  and  looked  away  from  him.  Then  she  brought 
out  slowly:  "And  I've  never  noticed — the  least  change — 
in — in  my  own  case — 

"Oh,"  he  sounded  deprecatingly,  and  she  trembled 
with  the  fear  of  having  gone  too  far.  But  the  hour  was 
past  when  such  scruples  could  restrain  her.  She  must 
know  where  she  was  and  where  Leila  was.  "Mrs.  Boulger 
still  cuts  me,"  she  brought  out  with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"Are  you  sure?  You've  probably  cut  her;  if  not  now, 
at  least  in  the  past.  And  in  a  cut  if  you're  not  first  you're 
nowhere.  That's  what  keeps  up  so  many  quarrels." 

The  word  roused  Mrs.  Lidcote  to  a  renewed  sense  of 
realities.  "But  the  Purshes,"  she  said — "the  Pursues  are 
so  strong !  There  are  so  many  of  them,  and  they  all  back 
each  other  up,  just  as  my  husband's  family  did.  I  know 
what  it  means  to  have  a  clan  against  one.  They're  stronger 
than  any  number  of  separate  friends.  The  Purshes  will 
never  forgive  Leila  for  leaving  Horace.  Why,  his,  mother 
opposed  his  marrying  her  because  of — of  me.  She  tried  to 
get  Leila  to  promise  that  she  wouldn't  see  me  when  they 
went  to  Europe  on  their  honeymoon.  And  now  she'll  say 
it  was  my  example." 

Her  companion,  vaguely  stroking  his  beard,  mused  a 
moment  upon  this;  then  he  asked,  with  seeming  irrele 
vance,  "What  did  Leila  say  when  you  wrote  that  you  were 
coming  ?  " 

[HO] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

"She  said  it  wasn't  the  least  necessary,  but  that  I'd 
better  come,  because  it  was  the  only  way  to  convince 
me  that  it  wasn't." 

"Well,  then,  that  proves  she's  not  afraid  of  the 
Purshes." 

She  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  remembrance.  "Oh,  just 
at  first,  you  know — one  never  is." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers  with  a  gesture  of  intelligence 
and  pity.  "You'll  see,  you'll  see,"  he  said. 

A  shadow  lengthened  down  the  deck  before  them,  and 
a  steward  stood  there,  proffering  a  Marconigram. 

"Oh,  now  I  shall  know!"  she  exclaimed. 

She  tore  the  message  open,  and  then  let  it  fall  on  her 
knees,  dropping  her  hands  on  it  in  silence. 

Ide's  enquiry  roused  her:  "It's  all  right?" 

"Oh,  quite  right.  Perfectly.  She  can't  come;  but  she's 
sending  Susy  Suffern.  She  says  Susy  will  explain."  After 
another  silence  she  added,  with  a  sudden  gush  of  bitter 
ness:  "As  if  I  needed  any  explanation!" 

She  felt  Ide's  hesitating  glance  upon  her.  "She's  in  the 
country?" 

£fc*  "Yes,  *  Prevented  last  moment.  Longing  for  you,  ex 
pecting  you.  Love  from  both.'  Don't  you  see,  the  poor 
darling,  that  she  couldn't  face  it?" 

"No,  I  don't."  He  waited.  "Do  you  mean  to  go  to  her 
immediately?" 

"It  will  be  too  late  to  catch  a  train  this  evening;  but  I 
[111] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

shall  take  the  first  to-morrow  morning."  She  considered 
a  moment.  "Perhaps  it's  better.  I  need  a  talk  with  Susy 
first.  She's  to  meet  me  at  the  dock,  and  I'll  take  her 
straight  back  to  the  hotel  with  me." 

As  she  developed  this  plan,  she  had  the  sense  that 
Ide  was  still  thoughtfully,  even  gravely,  considering  her. 
When  she  ceased,  he  remained  silent  a  moment;  then  he 
said  almost  ceremoniously:  "If  your  talk  with  Miss  Suf- 
fern  doesn't  last  too  late,  may  I  come  and  see  you  when 
it's  over?  I  shall  be  dining  at  my  club,  and  I'll  call  you 
up  at  about  ten,  if  I  may.  I'm  off  to  Chicago  on  business 
to-morrow  morning,  and  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to 
know,  before  I  start,  that  your  cousin's  been  able  to  re 
assure  you,  as  I  know  she  will." 

He  spoke  with  a  shy  deliberateness  that,  even  to  Mrs. 
Lidcote's  troubled  perceptions,  sounded  a  long-silenced 
note  of  feeling.  Perhaps  the  breaking  down  of  the  barrier 
of  reticence  between  them  had  released  unsuspected  emo 
tions  in  both.  The  tone  of  his  appeal  moved  her  curiously 
and  loosened  the  tight  strain  of  her  fears. 

"Oh,  yes,  come — do  come,"  she  said,  rising.  The  huge 
threat  of  New  York  was  imminent  now,  dwarfing,  under 
long  reaches  of  embattled  masonry,  the  great  deck  she 
stood  on  and  all  the  little  specks  of  life  it  carried.  One  of 
them,  drifting  nearer,  took  the  shape  of  her  maid,  fol 
lowed  by  luggage-laden  stewards,  and  signing  to  her  that 
it  was  time  to  go  below.  As  they  descended  to  the  main 
[112] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

deck,  the  throng  swept  her  against  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger's 
shoulder,  and  she  heard  the  ambassadress  call  out  to  some 
one,  over  the  vexed  sea  of  hats:  "So  sorry !  I  should  have 
been  delighted,  but  I've  promised  to  spend  Sunday  with 
some  friends  at  Lenox." 


OUSY  SUFFERN'S  explanation  did  not  end  till  after 
ten  o'clock,  and  she  had  just  gone  when  Franklin 
Ide,  who,  complying  with  an  old  New  York  tradition, 
had  caused  himself  to  be  preceded  by  a  long  white  box 
of  roses,  was  shown  into  Mrs.  Lidcote's  sitting-room. 

He  came  forward  with  his  shy  half-humorous  smile 
and,  taking  her  hand,  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  without 
speaking. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  then  pronounced. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  returned  his  smile.  "It's  extraordinary. 
Everything's  changed.  Even  Susy  has  changed;  and  you 
know  the  extent  to  which  Susy  used  to  represent  the  old 
New  York.  There's  no  old  New  York  left,  it  seems.  She 
talked  in  the  most  amazing  way.  She  snaps  her  fingers 
at  the  Purshes.  She  told  me — me,  that  every  woman  had 
a  right  to  happiness  and  that  self-expression  was  the 
highest  duty.  She  accused  me  of  misunderstanding  Leila; 
she  said  my  point  of  view  was  conventional!  She  was 
bursting  with  pride  at  having  been  in  the  secret,  and 
wearing  a  brooch  that  Wilbour  Barkley'd  given  her!" 
[1131 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Franklin  Ide  had  seated  himself  in  the  arm-chair  she 
had  pushed  forward  for  him  under  the  electric  chandelier. 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "What  did  I  tell 
you?" 

"Yes;  but  I  can't  believe  that  Susy's  not  mistaken. 
Poor  dear,  she  has  the  habit  of  lost  causes;  and  she  may 
feel  that,  having  stuck  to  me,  she  can  do  no  less  than 
stick  to  Leila." 

"But  she  didn't — did  she? — openly  defy  the  world  for 
you?  She  didn't  snap  her  fingers  at  the  Lidcotes?" 

Mrs.  Lidcote  shook  her  head,  still  smiling.  "No.  It  was 
enough  to  defy  my  family.  It  was  doubtful  at  one  time  if 
they  would  tolerate  her  seeing  me,  and  she  almost  had 
to  disinfect  herself  after  each  visit.  I  believe  that  at  first 
my  sister-in-law  wouldn't  let  the  girls  come  down  when 
Susy  dined  with  her." 

"Well,  isn't  your  cousin's  present  attitude  the  best 
possible  proof  that  times  have  changed?" 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know."  She  leaned  forward  from  her 
sofa-corner,  fixing  her  eyes  on  his  thin  kindly  face,  which 
gleamed  on  her  indistinctly  through  her  tears.  "If  it's 
true,  it's — it's  dazzling.  She  says  Leila's  perfectly  happy. 
It's  as  if  an  angel  had  gone  about  lifting  gravestones,  and 
the  buried  people  walked  again,  and  the  living  didn't 
shrink  from  them." 

"That's  about  it,"  he  assented. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  sat  looking  away  from  him 
[114] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

down  the  long  perspective  of  lamp-fringed  streets  over 
which  her  windows  hung. 

"I  can  understand  how  happy  you  must  be,"  he  began 
at  length. 

She  turned  to  him  impetuously.  "Yes,  yes;  I'm  happy. 
But  I'm  lonely,  too — lonelier  than  ever.  I  didn't  take  up 
much  room  in  the  world  before;  but  now — where  is  there 
a  corner  for  me?  Oh,  since  I've  begun  to  confess  myself, 
why  shouldn't  I  go  on  ?  Telling  you  this  lifts  a  gravestone 
from  me  I  You  see,  before  this,  Leila  needed  me.  She  was 
unhappy,  and  I  knew  it,  and  though  we  hardly  ever 
talked  of  it  I  felt  that,  in  a  way,  the  thought  that  I'd 
been  through  the  same  thing,  and  down  to  the  dregs  of 
it,  helped  her.  And  her  needing  me  helped  me.  And  when 
the  news  of  her  marriage  came  my  first  thought  was  that 
now  she'd  need  me  more  than  ever,  that  she'd  have  no 
one  but  me  to  turn  to.  Yes,  under  all  my  distress  there 
was  a  fierce  joy  in  that.  It  was  so  new  and  wonderful  to 
feel  again  that  there  was  one  person  who  wouldn't  be 
able  to  get  on  without  me !  And  now  what  you  and  Susy 
tell  me  seems  to  have  taken  my  child  from  me;  and  just 
at  first  that's  all  I  can  feel." 

.,     "Of  course  it's  all  you  feel."  He  looked  at  her  musingly. 
"Why  didn't  Leila  come  to  meet  you?" 

"That  was  really  my  fault.  You  see,  I'd  cabled  that  I 
was  not  sure  of  being  able  to  get  off  on  the  Utopia,  and 
apparently  my  second  cable  was  delayed,  and  when  she 
[115] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

received  it  she'd  already  asked  some  people  over  Sunday 
— one  or  two  of  her  old  friends,  Susy  says.  I'm  so  glad 
they  should  have  wanted  to  go  to  her  at  once;  but  natu 
rally  I'd  rather  have  been  alone  with  her." 

"You  still  mean  to  go,  then?" 

"Oh,  I  must.  Susy  wanted  to  drag  me  off  to  Ridgefield 
with  her  over  Sunday,  and  Leila  sent  me  word  that  of 
course  I  might  go  if  I  wanted  to,  and  that  I  was  not  to 
think  of  her;  but  I  know  how  disappointed  she  would  be. 
Susy  said  she  was  afraid  I  might  be  upset  at  her  having 
people  to  stay,  and  that,  if  I  minded,  she  wouldn't  urge 
me  to  come.  But  if  they  don't  mind,  why  should  I? 
And  of  course,  if  they're  willing  to  go  to  Leila  it  must 
mean — 

"Of  course.  I'm  glad  you  recognize  that,"  Franklin 
Ide  exclaimed  abruptly.  He  stood  up  and  went  over  to 
her,  taking  her  hand  with  one  of  his  quick  gestures. 
"There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,"  he  began — 

The  next  morning,  in  the  train,  through  all  the  other 
contending  thoughts  in  Mrs.  Lidcote's  mind  there  ran 
tlie  warm  undercurrent  of  what  Franklin  Ide  had  wanted 
to  say  to  her. 

He  had  wanted,  she  knew,  to  say  it  once  before,  when,, 
nearly  eight  years  earlier,  the  hazard  of  meeting  at  the 
end  of  a  rainy  autumn  in  a  deserted  Swiss  hotel  had  thrown 
them  for  a  fortnight  into  unwonted  propinquity.  They 

[lie] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

had  walked  and  talked  together,  borrowed  each  other's 
books  and  newspapers,  spent  the  long  chill  evenings  over 
the  fire  in  the  dim  lamplight  of  her  little  pitch-pine  sit 
ting-room;  and  she  had  been  wonderfully  comforted  by 
his  presence,  and  hard  frozen  places  in  her  had  melted, 
and  she  had  known  that  she  would  be  desperately  sorry 
when  he  went.  And  then,  just  at  the  end,  in  his  odd  in 
direct  way,  he  had  let  her  see  that  it  rested  with  her  to 
have  him  stay.  She  could  still  relive  the  sleepless  night 
she  had  given  to  that  discovery.  It  was  preposterous,  of 
course,  to  think  of  repaying  his  devotion  by  accepting 
such  a  sacrifice;  but  how  find  reasons  to  convince  him? 
She  could  not  bear  to  let  him  think  her  less  touched,  less 
inclined  to  him  than  she  was:  the  generosity  of  his  love 
deserved  that  she  should  repay  it  with  the  truth.  Yet 
how  let  him.  see  what  she  felt,  and  yet  refuse  what  he 
offered?  How  confess  to  him  what  had  been  on  her  lips 
when  he  made  the  offer:  "I've  seen  what  it  did  to  one 
man;  and  there  must  never,  never  be  another"  ?  The  tacit 
ignoring  of  her  past  had  been  the  element  in  which  their 
friendship  lived,  and  she  could  not  suddenly,  to  him  of 
all  men,  begin  to  talk  of  herself  like  a  guilty  woman  in  a 
play.  Somehow,  in  the  end,  she  had  managed  it,  had 
averted  a  direct  explanation,  had  made  him  understand 
that  her  life  was  over,  that  she  existed  only  for  her  daugh 
ter,  and  that  a  more  definite  word  from  him  would  have 
been  almost  a  breach  of  delicacy.  She  was  so  used  to  be- 
[117] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

having  as  if  her  life  were  c  ver !  And,  at  any  rate,  he  had 
taken  her  hint,  and  she  had  been  able  to  spare  her  sensi 
tiveness  and  his.  The  next  year,  when  he  came  to  Florence 
to  see  her,  they  met  again  in  the  old  friendly  way;  and 
that  till  now  had  continued  to  be  the  tenor  of  their  in 
timacy. 

And  now,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  he  had  brought 
up  the  question  again,  directly  this  time,  and  in  such  a 
form  that  she  could  not  evade  it:  putting  the  renewal  of 
his  plea,  after  so  long  an  interval,  on  the  ground  that, 
on  her  own  showing,  her  chief  argument  against  it  no 
longer  existed. 

"You  tell  me  Leila's  happy.  If  she's  happy,  she  doesn't 
need  you — need  you,  that  is,  in  the  same  way  as  before. 
You  wanted,  I  know,  to  be  always  in  reach,  always  free 
and  available  if  she  should  suddenly  call  you  to  her  or 
take  refuge  with  you.  I  understood  that — I  respected  it. 
I  didn't  urge  my  case  because  I  saw  it  was  useless.  You 
couldn't,  I  understood  well  enough,  have  felt  free  to  take 
such  happiness  as  life  with  me  might  give  you  while  she 
was  unhappy,  and,  as  you  imagined,  with  no  hope  of  re 
lease.  Even  then  I  didn't  feel  as  you  did  about  it;  I  under 
stood  better  the  trend  of  things  here.  But  ten  years  ago 
the  change  hadn't  really  come;  and  I  had  no  way  of  con 
vincing  you  that  it  was  coming.  Still,  I  always  fancied 
that  Leila  might  not  think  her  case  was  closed,  and  so 
I  chose  to  think  that  ours  wasn't  either.  Let  me  go  on 
[118] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

thinking  so,  at  any  rate,  till  you've  seen  her,  and  con 
firmed  with  your  own  eyes  what  Susy  Suffern  tells  you." 


in 


AX  through  what  Susy  Suffern  told  and  retold  her 
during  their  four-hours'  flight  to  the  hills  this  plea 
of  Ide's  kept  coming  back  to  Mrs.  Lidcote.  She  did  not 
yet  know  what  she  felt  as  to  its  bearing  on  her  own  fate, 
but  it  was  something  on  which  her  confused  thoughts 
could  stay  themselves  amid  the  welter  of  new  impressions, 
and  she  was  inexpressibly  glad  that  he  had  said  what  he 
had,  and  said  it  at  that  particular  moment.  It  helped  her 
to  hold  fast  to  her  identity  in  the  rush  of  strange  names 
and  new  categories  that  her  cousin's  talk  poured  out  on 
her. 

With  the  progress  of  the  journey  Miss  Suffern's  com 
munications  grew  more  and  more  amazing.  She  was  like 
a  cicerone  preparing  the  mind  of  an  inexperienced  traveller 
for  the  marvels  about  to  burst  on  it. 

"You  won't  know  Leila.  She's  had  her  pearls  reset. 
Sargent's  to  paint  her.  Oh,  and  I  was  to  tell  you  that  she 
hopes  you  won't  mind  being  the  least  bit  squeezed  over 
Sunday.  The  house  was  built  by  Wilbour's  father,  you 
know,  and  it's  rather  old-fashioned — only  ten  spare  bed 
rooms.  Of  course  that's  small  for  what  they  mean  to  do, 
and  she'll  show  you  the  new  plans  they've  had  made. 
[110] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Their  idea  is  to  keep  the  present,  house  as  a  wing.  She  told 
me  to  explain — she's  so  dreadfully  sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  give  you  a  sitting-room  just  at  first.  They're  thinking 
of  Egypt  for  next  winter,  unless,  of  course,  Wilbour  gets 
his  appointment.  Oh,  didn't  she  write  you  about  that? 
Why,  he  wants  Rome,  you  know — the  second  secretary 
ship.  Or,  rather,  he  wanted  England;  but  Leila  insisted 
that  if  they  went  abroad  she  must  be  near  you.  And  of 
course  what  she  says  is  law.  Oh,  they  quite  hope  they'll 
get  it.  You  see  Horace's  uncle  is  in  the  Cabinet, — one  of 
the  assistant  secretaries, — and  I  believe  he  has  a  good 
deal  of  pull — 

"Horace's  uncle?  You  mean  Wilbour's,  I  suppose," 
Mrs.  Lidcote  interjected,  with  a  gasp  of  which  a  fraction 
was  given  to  Miss  Suffern's  flippant  use  of  the  language. 

"Wilbour's?  No,  I  don't.  I  mean  Horace's.  There's  no 
bad  feeling  between  them,  I  assure  you.  Since  Horace's 
engagement  was  announced — you  didn't  know  Horace  was 
engaged?  Why,  he's  marrying  one  of  Bishop  Thorbury's 
girls:  the  red-haired  one  who  wrote  the  novel  that  every 
one's  talking  about,  'This  Flesh  of  Mine.'  They're  to  be 
married  in  the  cathedral.  Of  course  Horace  can,  because 
it  was  Leila  who — but,  as  I  say,  there's  not  the  least  feel 
ing,  and  Horace  wrote  himself  to  his  uncle  about  Wil 
bour." 

Mrs.  Lidcote's  thoughts  fled  back  to  what  she  had  said 
to  Ide  the  day  before  on  the  deck  of  the  Utopia.  "I  didn't 
[120] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

take  up  much  room  before,  but  now  where  is  there  a  cor 
ner  for  me?"  Where  indeed  in  this  crowded,  topsy-turvey 
world,  with  its  headlong  changes  and  helter-skelter  re 
adjustments,  its  new  tolerances  and  indifferences  and  ac 
commodations,  was  there  room  for  a  character  fashioned 
by  slower  sterner  processes  and  a  life  broken  under  their 
inexorable  pressure  ?  And  then,  in  a  flash,  she  viewed  the 
chaos  from  a  new  angle,  and  order  seemed  to  move  upon 
the  void.  If  the  old  processes  were  changed,  her  case  was 
changed  with  them;  she,  too,  was  a  part  of  the  general 
readjustment,  a  tiny  fragment  of  the  new  pattern  worked 
out  in  bolder  freer  harmonies.  Since  her  daughter  had  no 
penalty  to  pay,  was  not  she  herself  released  by  the  same 
stroke?  The  rich  arrears  of  youth  and  joy  were  gone; 
but  was  there  not  time  enough  left  to  accumulate  new 
stores  of  happiness?  That,  of  course,  was  what  Franklin 
Ide  had  felt  and  had  meant  her  to  feel.  He  had  seen  at 
once  what  the  change  in  her  daughter's  situation  would 
make  in  her  view  of  her  own.  It  was  almost — wondrously 
enough ! — as  if  Leila's  folly  had  been  the  means  of  vindi 
cating  hers. 

Everything  else  for  the  moment  faded  for  Mrs.  Lid- 
cote  in  the  glow  of  her  daughter's  embrace.  It  was  un 
natural,  it  was  almost  terrifying,  to  find  herself  standing 
on  a  strange  threshold,  under  an  unknown  roof,  in  a  big 
hall  full  of  pictures,  flowers,  firelight,  and  hurrying  ser- 
121 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

vants,  and  in  this  spacious  unfamiliar  confusion  to  dis 
cover  Leila,  bareheaded,  laughing,  authoritative,  with  a 
strange  young  man  jovially  echoing  her  welcome  and 
transmitting  her  orders;  but  once  Mrs.  Lidcote  had  her 
child  on  her  breast,  and  her  child's  "It's  all  right,  you  old 
darling!"  in  her  ears,  every  other  feeling  was  lost  in  the 
deep  sense  of  well-being  that  only  Leila's  hug  could 
give. 

The  sense  was  still  with  her,  warming  her  veins  and 
pleasantly  fluttering  her  heart,  as  she  went  up  to  her 
room  after  luncheon.  A  little  constrained  by  the  presence 
of  visitors,  and  not  altogether  sorry  to  defer  for  a  few  hours 
the  "long  talk"  with  her  daughter  for  which  she  somehow 
felt  herself  tremulously  unready,  she  had  withdrawn,  on 
the  plea  of  fatigue,  to  the  bright  luxurious  bedroom  into 
which  Leila  had  again  and  again  apologized  for  having 
been  obliged  to  squeeze  her.  The  room  was  bigger  and 
finer  than  any  in  her  small  apartment  in  Florence;  but 
it  was  not  the  standard  of  affluence  implied  in  her  daugh 
ter's  tone  about  it  that  chiefly  struck  her,  nor  yet  the 
finish  and  complexity  of  its  appointments.  It  was  the 
look  it  shared  with  the  rest  of  the  house,  and  with  the 
perspective  of  the  gardens  beneath  its  windows,  of  being 
part  of  an  "establishment" — of  something  solid,  avowed, 
founded  on  sacraments  and  precedents  and  principles. 
There  was  nothing  about  the  place,  or  about  Leila  and 
Wilbour,  that  suggested  either  passion  or  peril:  their  re- 
[122] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

lation  seemed  as  comfortable  as  their  furniture  and  as 
respectable  as  their  balance  at  the  bank. 

This  was,  in  the  whole  confusing  experience,  the  thing 
that  confused  Mrs.  Lidcote  most,  that  gave  her  at  once 
the  deepest  feeling  of  security  for  Leila  and  the  strongest 
sense  of  apprehension  for  herself.  Yes,  there  was  some 
thing  oppressive  in  the  completeness  and  compactness 
of  Leila's  well-being.  Ide  had  been  right:  her  daughter  did 
not  need  her.  Leila,  with  her  first  embrace,  had  uncon 
sciously  attested  the  fact  in  the  same  phrase  as  Ide  him 
self  and  as  the  two  young  women  with  the  hats.  "It's  all 
right,  you  old  darling!"  she  had  said;  and  her  mother 
sat  alone,  trying  to  fit  herself  into  the  new  scheme  of 
things  which  such  a  certainty  betokened. 

Her  first  distinct  feeling  was  one  of  irrational  resent 
ment.  If  such  a  change  was  to  come,  why  had  it  not  come 
sooner?  Here  was  she,  a  woman  not  yet  old,  who  had 
paid  with  the  best  years  of  her  life  for  the  theft  of  the 
happiness  that  her  daughter's  contemporaries  were  tak 
ing  as  their  due.  There  was  no  sense,  no  sequence,  in  it. 
She  had  had  what  she  wanted,  but  she  had  had  to  pay 
too  much  for  it.  She  had  had  to  pay  the  last  bitterest 
pi-ice  of  learning  that  love  has  a  price:  that  it  is  worth  so 
much  and  no  more.  She  had  known  the  anguish  of  watch 
ing  the  man  she  loved  discover  this  first,  and  of  reading 
the  discovery  in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  part  of  her  history 
that  she  had  not  trusted  herself  to  think  of  for  a  long 
1133] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

time  past:  she  always  took  a  big  turn  about  that  haunted 
corner.  But  now,  at  the  sight  of  the  young  man  down 
stairs,  so  openly  and  jovially  Leila's,  she  was  overwhelmed 
at  the  senseless  waste  of  her  own  adventure,  and  wrung 
with  the  irony  of  perceiving  that  the  success  or  failure 
of  the  deepest  human  experiences  may  hang  on  a  matter 
of  chronology. 

Then  gradually  the  thought  of  Ide  returned  to  her. 
"I  chose  to  think  that  our  case  wasn't  closed,"  he  had 
said.  She  had  been  deeply  touched  by  that.  To  every  one 
else  her  case  had  been  closed  so  long !  Finis  was  scrawled 
all  over  her.  But  here  was  one  man  who  had  believed  and 
waited,  and  what  if  what  he  believed  in  and  waited  for 
were  coming  true?  If  Leila's  "all  right"  should  really 
foreshadow  hers? 

As  yet,  of  course,  it  was  impossible  to  tell.  She  had 
fancied,  indeed,  when  she  entered  the  drawing-room  before 
luncheon,  that  a  too-sudden  hush  had  fallen  on  the  assem 
bled  group  of  Leila's  friends,  on  the  slender  vociferous 
young  women  and  the  lounging  golf-stockinged  young 
men.  They  had  all  received  her  politely,  with  the  kind  of 
petrified  politeness  that  may  be  either  a  tribute  to  age 
or  a  protest  at  laxity;  but  to  them,  of  course,  she  must 
be  an  old  woman  because  she  was  Leila's  mother,  and  in 
a  society  so  dominated  by  youth  the  mere  presence  of 
maturity  was  a  constraint. 

One  of  the  young  girls,  however,  had  presently  emerged 
[124] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

from  the  group,  and,  attaching  herself  to  Mrs.  Lidcote, 
had  listened  to  her  with  a  blue  gaze  of  admiration  which 
gave  the  older  woman  a  sudden  happy  consciousness  of 
her  long-forgotten  social  graces.  It  was  agreeable  to  find 
herself  attracting  this  young  Charlotte  Wynn,  whose 
mother  had  been  among  her  closest  friends,  and  in  whom 
sometliing  of  the  soberness  and  softness  of  the  earlier 
manners  had  survived.  But  the  little  colloquy,  broken  up 
by  the  announcement  of  luncheon,  could  of  course  result 
in  nothing  more  definite  than  this  reminiscent  emotion. 

No,  she  could  not  yet  tell  how  her  own  case  was  to  be 
fitted  into  the  new  order  of  things;  but  there  were  more 
people — "older  people"  Leila  had  put  it — arriving  by  the 
afternoon  train,  and  that  evening  at  dinner  she  would 
doubtless  be  able  to  judge.  She  began  to  wonder  ner 
vously  who  the  new-comers  might  be.  Probably  she  would 
be  spared  the  embarrassment  of  finding  old  acquain 
tances  among  them;  but  it  was  odd  that  her  daughter  had 
mentioned  no  names. 

Leila  had  proposed  that,  later  in  the  afternoon,  Wil- 
bour  should  take  her  mother  for  a  drive:  she  said  she 
wanted  them  to  have  a  "nice,  quiet  talk."  But  Mrs. 
Lidcote  wished  her  talk  with  Leila  to  come  first,  and  had, 
moreover,  at  luncheon,  caught  stray  allusions  to  an  im 
pending  tennis-match  in  which  her  son-in-law  was  en 
gaged.  Her  fatigue  had  been  a  sufficient  pretext  for  de 
clining  the  drive,  and  she  had  begged  Leila  to  think  of  her 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

as  peacefully  resting  in  her  room  till  such  time  as  they 
could  snatch  their  quiet  moment. 

"Before  tea,  then,  you  duck!"  Leila  with  a  last  kiss 
had  decided;  and  presently  Mrs.  Lidcote,  through  her 
open  window,  had  heard  the  fresh  loud  voices  of  her 
daughter's  visitors  chiming  across  the  gardens  from  the 
tennis-court. 


IV 


TEILA  had  come  and  gone,  and  they  had  had  their 
•*— '  talk.  It  had  not  lasted  as  long  as  Mrs.  Lidcote 
wished,  for  in  the  middle  of  it  Leila  had  been  summoned 
to  the  telephone  to  receive  an  important  message  from 
town,  and  had  sent  word  to  her  mother  that  she  couldn't 
come  back  just  then,  as  one  of  the  young  ladies 'had  been 
called  away  unexpectedly  and  arrangements  had  to  be 
made  for  her  departure.  But  the  mother  and  daughter 
had  had  almost  an  hour  together,  and  Mrs.  Lidcote  was 
happy.  She  had  never  seen  Leila  so  tender,  so  solicitous. 
The  only  thing  that  troubled  her  was  the  very  excess  of 
this  solicitude,  the  exaggerated  expression  of  her  daugh 
ter's  annoyance  that  their  first  moments  together  should 
have  been  marred  by  the  presence  of  strangers. 

"Not  strangers  to  me,  darling,  since  they're  friends  of 
yours,"  her  mother  had  assured  her. 

"Yes;  but  I  know  your  feeling,  you  queer  wild  mother. 
[  120  ] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

I  know  how  you've  always  hated  people."  (Hated  people! 
Had  Leila  forgotten  why?)  "And  that's  why  I  told  Susy 
that  if  you  preferred  to  go  with  her  to  Ridgefield  on 
Sunday  I  should  perfectly  understand,  and  patiently  wait 
for  our  good  hug.  But  you  didn't  really  mind  them  at 
luncheon,  did  you,  dearest?" 

Mrs.  Lidcote,  at  that,  had  suddenly  thrown  a  startled 
look  at  her  daughter.  "I  don't  mind  things  of  that  kind 
any  longer,"  she  had  simply  answered. 

"But  that  doesn't  console  me  for  having  exposed  you 
to  the  bother  of  it,  for  having  let  you  come  here  when  I 
ought  to  have  ordered  you  off  to  Ridgefield  with  Susy. 
If  Susy  hadn't  been  stupid  she'd  have  made  you  go  there 
with  her.  I  hate  to  think  of  you  up  here  all  alone." 

Again  Mrs.  Lidcote  tried  to  read  something  more 
than  a  rather  obtuse  devotion  in  her  daughter's  radiant 
gaze.  "I'm  glad  to  have  had  a  rest  this  afternoon,  dear; 
and  later — " 

"Oh,  yes,  later,  when  all  this  fuss  is  over,  we'll  more 
than  make  up  for  it,  sha'n't  we,  you  precious  darling?" 
And  at  this  point  Leila  had  been  summoned  to  the  tele 
phone,  leaving  Mrs.  Lidcote  to  her  conjectures. 

These  were  still  floating  before  her  in  cloudy  uncer 
tainty  when  Miss  Suffern  tapped  at  the  door. 

"You've  come  to  take  me  down  to  tea?  I'd  forgotten 
how  late  it  was,"  Mrs.  Lidcote  exclaimed. 

Miss  Suffern,  a  plump  peering  little  woman,  with  prim 
[  127  ] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

hair  and  a  conciliatory  smile,  nervously  adjusted  the  pen 
dent  bugles  of  her  elaborate  black  dress.  Miss  Suffern  was 
always  in  mourning,  and  always  commemorating  the 
demise  of  distant  relatives  by  wearing  the  discarded 
wardrobe  of  their  next  of  kin.  "It  isn't  exactly  mourning," 
she  would  say;  "but  it's  the  only  stitch  of  black  poor 
Julia  had — and  of  course  George  was  only  my  mother's 
step-cousin." 

As  she  came  forward  Mrs.  Lidcote  found  herself  humor 
ously  wondering  whether  she  were  mourning  Horace 
Pursh's  divorce  in  one  of  his  mother's  old  black  satins. 

"Oh,  did  you  mean  to  go  down  for  tea?"  Susy  Suffern 
peered  at  her,  a  little  fluttered.  "Leila  sent  me  up  to  keep 
you  company.  She  thought  it  would  be  cozier  for  you  to 
stay  here.  She  was  afraid  you  were  feeling  rather  tired." 

"I  was;  but  I've  had  the  whole  afternoon  to  rest  in. 
And  this  wonderful  sofa  to  help  me." 

"Leila  told  me  to  tell  you  that  she'd  rush  up  for  a 
minute  before  dinner,  after  everybody  had  arrived;  but 
the  train  is  always  dreadfully  late.  She's  in  despair  at 
not  giving  you  a  sitting-room;  she  wanted  to  know  if  I 
thought  you  really  minded." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind.  It's  not  like  Leila  to  think  I 
should."  Mrs.  Lidcote  drew  aside  to  make  way  for  the 
housemaid,  who  appeared  in  the  doorway  bearing  a  table 
spread  with  a  bewildering  variety  of  tea-cakes. 

"Leila  saw  to  it  herself,"  Miss  Suffern  murmured  as 
[128] 


AJJTRES    TEMPS... 

the  door  closed.  "Her  one  idea  is  that  you  should  feel 
happy  here." 

It  struck  Mrs.  Lidcote  as  one  more  mark  of  the  sub 
verted  state  of  things  that  her  daughter's  solicitude  should 
find  expression  in  the  multiplicity  of  sandwiches  and  the 
piping-hotness  of  muffins;  but  then  everything  that  had 
happened  since  her  arrival  seemed  to  increase  her  con 
fusion. 

The  note  of  a  motor-horn  down  the  drive  gave  another 
turn  to  her  thoughts.  "Are  those  the  new  arrivals  al 
ready?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  dear,  no;  they  won't  be  here  till  after  seven." 
Miss  Suffern  craned  her  head  from  the  window  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  motor.  "It  must  be  Charlotte  leaving." 

"Was  it  the  little  Wynn  girl  who  was  called  away  in 
a  hurry  ?  I  hope  it's  not  on  account  of  illness." 

"Oh,  no;  I  believe  there  was  some  mistake  about  dates. 
Her  mother  telephoned  her  that  she  was  expected  at  the 
Stepleys,  at  Fishkill,  and  she  had  to  be  rushed  over  to 
Albany  to  catch  a  train." 

Mrs.  Lidcote  meditated.  "I'm  sorry.  She's  a  charming 
young  thing.  I  hoped  I  should  have  another  talk  with 
her  this  evening  after  dinner." 

"Yes;  it's  too  bad."  Miss  Suffern's  gaze  grew  vague. 

"You  do  look  tired,  you  know,"  she  continued,  seating 

herself  at   the  tea-table   and  preparing   to   dispense   its 

delicacies.  "You  must  go  straight  back  to  your  sofa  and 

[129] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

let  me  wait  on  you.  The  excitement  has  told  on  you  more 
than  you  think,  and  you  mustn't  fight  against  it  any 
longer.  Just  stay  quietly  up  here  and  let  yourself  go. 
You'll  have  Leila  to  yourself  on  Monday." 

Mrs.  Lidcote  received  the  tea-cup  which  her  cousin 
proffered,  but  showed  no  other  disposition  to  obey  her 
injunctions.  For  a  moment  she  stirred  her  tea  in  silence; 
then  she  asked:  "Is  it  your  idea  that  I  should  stay  quietly 
up  here  till  Monday  ?  " 

Miss  Suffern  set  down  her  cup  with  a  gesture  so  sudden 
that  it  endangered  an  adjacent  plate  of  scones.  When  she 
had  assured  herself  of  the  safety  of  the  scones  she  looked 
up  with  a  fluttered  laugh.  "  Perhaps,  dear,  by  to-morrow 
you'll  be  feeling  differently.  The  air  here,  you  know — '' 

"Yes,  I  know.'*  Mrs.  Lidcote  bent  forward  to  help 
herself  to  a  scone.  "Who's  arriving  this  evening?"  she 
asked. 

Miss  Suffern  frowned  and  peered.  "You  know  my 
wretched  head  for  names.  Leila  told  me — but  there  are 
so  many — 

"So  many?  She  didn't  tell  me  she  expected  a  big 
party." 

"Oh,  not  big:  but  rather  outside  of  her  little  group. 
And  of  course,  as  it's  the  first  time,  she's  a  little  excited 
at  having  the  older  set." 

"The  older  set?  Our  contemporaries,  you  mean?" 

"Why — yes."  Miss  Suffern  paused  as  if  to  gather  her- 


A  U  T  R  E  S    TEMPS... 

self  up  for  a    leap.   "The  Ashton  Gileses,"  she  brought 
out. 

"The  Ashton  Gileses?  Really?  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
Mary  Giles  again.  It  must  be  eighteen  years,"  said  Mrs. 
Lidcote  steadily. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Suffern  gasped,  precipitately  refilling  her 
cup. 

"The  Ashton  Gileses;  and  who  else?" 

"Well,  the  Sam  Fresbies.  But  the  most  important  per 
son,  of  course,  is  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger." 

"Mrs.  Boulger?  Leila  didn't  tell  me  she  was  coming." 

"Didn't  she  ?  I  suppose  she  forgot  everything  when  she 
saw  you.  But  the  party  was  got  up  for  Mrs.  Boulger. 
You  see,  it's  very  important  that  she  should — well,  take 
a  fancy  to  Leila  and  Wilbour;  his  being  appointed  to 
Rome  virtually  depends  on  it.  And  you  know  Leila  in 
sists  on  Rome  in  order  to  be  near  you.  So  she  asked  Mary 
Giles,  who's  intimate  with  the  Boulgers,  if  the  visit 
couldn't  possibly  be  arranged;  and  Mary's  cable  caught 
Mrs.  Boulger  at  Cherbourg.  She's  to  be  only  a  fortnight 
in  America;  and  getting  her  to  come  directly  here  was 
rather  a  triumph." 

"Yes;  I  see  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Lidcote. 

"You  know,  she's  rather — rather  fussy;  and  Mary  was 
a  little  doubtful  if—" 

"If  she  would,  on  account  of  Leila?"  Mrs.  Lidcote 
murmured. 

[131] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

"Well,  yes.  In  her  official  position.  But  luckily  she's  a 
friend  of  the  Barkleys.  And  finding  the  Gileses  and  Fres- 
bies  here  will  make  it  all  right.  The  times  have  changed !" 
Susy  Suffern  indulgently  summed  up. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  smiled.  "Yes;  a  few  years  ago  it  would 
have  seemed  improbable  that  I  should  ever  again  be 
dining  with  Mary  Giles  and  Harriet  Fresbie  and  Mrs. 
Lorin  Boulger." 

Miss  Suffern  did  not  at  the  moment  seem  disposed  to 
enlarge  upon  this  theme;  and  after  an  interval  of  silence 
Mrs.  Lidcote  suddenly  resumed:  "Do  they  know  I'm 
here,  by  the  way?" 

The  effect  of  her  question  was  to  produce  in  Miss 
Suffern  an  exaggerated  access  of  peering  and  frowning. 
She  twitched  the  tea-things  about,  fingered  her  bugles, 
and,  looking  at  the  clock,  exclaimed  amazedly:  "Mercy! 
Is  it  seven  already?" 

"Not  that  it  can  make  any  difference,  I  suppose," 
Mrs.  Lidcote  continued.  "But  did  Leila  tell  them  I  was 
coming?" 

Miss  Suffern  looked  at  her  with  pain.  "Why,  you  don't 
suppose,  dearest,  that  Leila  would  do  anything — " 

Mrs.  Lidcote  went  on:  "For,  of  course,  it's  of  the  first 
importance,  as  you  say,  that  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger  should 
be  favorably  impressed,  in  order  that  Wilbour  may  have 
the  best  possible  chance  of  getting  Rome." 

"I  told  Leila  you'd  feel  that,  dear.  You  see,  it's  actually 
[  132  ] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

on  your  account — so  that  they  may  get  a  post  near  you 
— that  Leila  invited  Mrs.  Boulger." 

"Yes,  I  see  that."  Mrs.  Lidcote,  abruptly  rising  from 
her  seat,  turned  her  eyes  to  the  clock.  "But,  as  you  say, 
it's  getting  late.  Oughtn't  we  to  dress  for  dinner?" 

Miss  Suffern,  at  the  suggestion,  stood  up  also,  an  agi 
tated  hand  among  her  bugles.  "I  do  wish  I  could  per 
suade  you  to  stay  up  here  this  evening.  I'm  sure  Leila'd 
be  happier  if  you  would.  Really,  you're  much  too  tired 
to  come  down." 

"What  nonsense,  Susy!"  Mrs.  Lidcote  spoke  with  a 
sudden  sharpness,  her  hand  stretched  to  the  bell.  "When 
do  we  dine  ?  At  half -past  eight  ?  Then  I  must  really  send 
you  packing.  At  my  age  it  takes  time  to  dress." 

Miss  Suffern,  thus  projected  toward  the  threshold, 
lingered  there  to  repeat:  "Leila'll  never  forgive  herself 
if  you  make  an  effort  you're  not  up  to."  But  Mrs.  Lid 
cote  smiled  on  her  without  answering,  and  the  icy  light 
wave  propelled  her  through  the  door. 


[133]     . 


AUTRES    TEMPS., 


"V1TRS.  LIDCOTE,  though  she  had  made  the  gesture 
A  of  ringing  for  her  maid,  had  not  done  so. 

When  the  door  closed,  she  continued  to  stand  motion 
less  in  the  middle  of  her  soft  spacious  room.  The  fire  which 
had  been  kindled  at  twilight  danced  on  the  brightness  of 
silver  and  mirrors  and  sober  gilding;  and  the  sofa  toward 
which  she  had  been  urged  by  Miss  Suffern  heaped  up  its 
cushions  in  inviting  proximity  to  a  table  laden  with  new 
books  and  papers.  She  could  not  recall  having  ever  been 
more  luxuriously  housed,  or  having  ever  had  so  strange 
a  sense  of  being  out  alone,  under  the  night,  in  a  wind- 
beaten  plain.  She  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  thought. 

A  knock  on  the  door  made  her  lift  her  head,  and  she 
saw  her  daughter  on  the  threshold.  The  intricate  ordering 
of  Leila's  fair  hair  and  the  flying  folds  of  her  dressing- 
gown  showed  that  she  had  interrupted  her  dressing  to 
hasten  to  her  mother;  but  once  in  the  room  she  paused 
a  moment,  smiling  uncertainly,  as  though  she  had  for 
gotten  the  object  of  her  haste. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  rose  to  her  feet.  "Time  to  dress,  dearest? 
Don't  scold !  I  sha'n't  be  late." 

"To  dress?"  Leila  stood  before  her  with  a  puzzled 
look.  "Why,  I  thought,  dear — I  mean,  I  hoped  you'd 
decided  just  to  stay  here  quietly  and  rest." 
[134] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Her  mother  smiled.  "But  I've  been  resting  all  the  after 
noon!" 

"Yes,  but— you  know  you  do  look  tired.  And  when 
Susy  told  me  just  now  that  you  meant  to  make  the 
effort—" 

"You  came  to  stop  me?" 

"I  came  to  tell  you  that  you  needn't  feel  in  the  least 
obliged—" 

"Of  course.  I  understand  that." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  Leila,  vaguely  averting 
herself  from  her  mother's  scrutiny,  drifted  toward  the 
dressing-table  and  began  to  disturb  the  symmetry  of  the 
brushes  and  bottles  laid  out  on  it. 

"Do  your  visitors  know  that  I'm  here?"  Mrs.  Lidcote 
suddenly  went  on. 

"Do  they —  Of  course — why,  naturally,"  Leila  re 
joined,  absorbed  in  trying  to  turn  the  stopper  of  a  salts- 
bottle. 

"Then  won't  they  think  it  odd  if  I  don't  appear?" 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,  dearest.  I  assure  you  they'll  all 
understand."  Leila  laid  down  the  bottle  and  turned  back 
to  her  mother,  her  face  alight  with  reassurance. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  stood  motionless,  her  head  erect,  her 
smiling  eyes  on  her  daughter's.  "Will  they  think  it  odd 
ii  I  do?" 

Leila  stopped  short,  her  lips  half  parted  to  reply.  As 
she  paused,  the  colour  stole  over  her  bare  neck,  swept 
[135] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

up  to  her  throat,  and  burst  into  flame  in  her  cheeks. 
Thence  it  sent  its  devastating  crimson  up  to  her  very 
temples,  to  the  lobes  of  her  ears,  to  the  edges  of  her  eye 
lids,  beating  all  over  her  in  fiery  waves,  as  if  fanned  by 
some  imperceptible  wind. 

Mrs.  Lidcote  silently  watched  the  conflagration;  then 
she  turned  away  her  eyes  with  a  slight  laugh.  "I  only 
meant  that  I  was  afraid  it  might  upset  the  arrangement 
of  your  dinner- table  if  I  didn't  come  down.  If  you  can 
assure  me  that  it  won't,  I  believe  I'll  take  you  at  your 
word  and  go  back  to  this  irresistible  sofa."  She  paused, 
as  if  waiting  for  her  daughter  to  speak;  then  she  held  out 
her  arms.  "Run  off  and  dress,  dearest;  and  don't  have  me 
on  your  mind."  She  clasped  Leila  close,  pressing  a  long 
kiss  on  the  last  afterglow  of  her  subsiding  blush.  "I  do 
feel  the  least  bit  overdone,  and  if  it  won't  inconvenience 
you  to  have  me  drop  out  of  things,  I  believe  I'll  basely 
take  to  my  bed  and  stay  there  till  your  party  scatters. 
And  now  run  off,  or  you'll  be  late;  and  make  my  excuses 
to  them  all." 


[136] 


AUTRES    TEMPS. 


VI 


^T^HE  Barkleys'  visitors  had  dispersed,  and  Mrs.  Lid- 
•*-  cote,  completely  restored  by  her  two  days'  rest, 
found  herself,  on  the  following  Monday  alone  with  her 
children  and  Miss  Suffern. 

There  was  a  note  of  jubilation  in  the  air,  for  the  party 
had  "gone  off"  so  extraordinarily  well,  and  so  completely, 
as  it  appeared,  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger, 
that  Wilbour's  early  appointment  to  Rome  was  almost  to 
be  counted  on.  So  certain  did  this  seem  that  the  prospect 
of  a  prompt  reunion  mitigated  the  distress  with  which 
Leila  learned  of  her  mother's  decision  to  return  almost 
immediately  to  Italy.  No  one  understood  this  decision; 
it  seemed  to  Leila  absolutely  unintelligible  that  Mrs. 
Lidcote  should  not  stay  on  with  them  till  their  own  fate 
was  fixed,  and  Wilbour  echoed  her  astonishment. 

"Why  shouldn't  you,  as  Leila  says,  wait  here  till  we 
can  all  pack  up  and  go  together?" 

Mrs.  Lidcote  smiled  her  gratitude  with  her  refusal. 
"After  all,  it's  not  yet  sure  that  you'll  be  packing 

up." 

.. 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  have  seen  Wilbour  with  Mrs.  Boul 
ger,"  Leila  triumphed. 

"No,  you  ought  to  have  seen  Leila  with  her/'  Leila's 
husband  exulted. 

[137] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Miss  Suffern  enthusiastically  appended:  "I  do  think 
inviting  Harriet  Fresbie  was  a  stroke  of  genius!" 

"Oh,  we'll  be  with  you  soon,"  Leila  laughed.  "So  soon 
that  it's  really  foolish  to  separate." 

But  Mrs.  Lidcote  held  out  with  the  quiet  firmness 
which  her  daughter  knew  it  was  useless  to  oppose.  After 
her  long  months  in  India,  it  was  really  imperative,  she  de 
clared,  that  she  should  get  back  to  Florence  and  see  what 
was  happening  to  her  little  place  there;  and  she  had  been 
so  comfortable  on  the  Utopia  that  she  had  a  fancy  to  re 
turn  by  the  same  ship.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  there 
fore,  but  to  acquiesce  in  her  decision  and  keep  her  with 
them  till  the  afternoon  before  the  day  of  the  Utopia's 
sailing.  This  arrangement  fitted  in  with  certain  projects 
which,  during  her  two  days'  seclusion,  Mrs.  Lidcote  had 
silently  matured.  It  had  become  to  her  of  the  first  im 
portance  to  get  away  as  soon  as  she  could,  and  the  little 
place  in  Florence,  which  held  her  past  in  every  fold  of 
its  curtains  and  between  every  page  of  its  books,  seemed 
now  to  her  the  one  spot  where  that  past  would  be  endura 
ble  to  look  upon. 

She  was  not  unhappy  during  the  intervening  days. 
The  sight  of  Leila's  well-being,  the  sense  of  Leila's  ten 
derness,  were,  after  all,  what  she  had  come  for;  and  of 
these  she  had  had  full  measure.  Leila  had  never  been 
happier  or  more  tender;  and  the  contemplation  of  her 
bliss,  and  the  enjoyment  of  her  affection,  were  an  absorb- 
[138] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

ing  occupation  for  her  mother.  But  they  were  also  a  sharp 
strain  on  certain  overtightened  chords,  and  Mrs.  Lidcote, 
when  at  last  she  found  herself  alone  in  the  New  York 
hotel  to  which  she  had  returned  the  night  before  em 
barking,  had  the  feeling  that  she  had  just  escaped  with 
her  life  from  the  clutch  of  a  giant  hand. 

She  had  refused  to  let  her  daughter  come  to  town  with 
her;  she  had  even  rejected  Susy  Suffern's  company.  She 
wanted  no  viaticum  but  that  of  her  own  thoughts;  and  she 
let  these  come  to  her  without  shrinking  from  them  as  she 
sat  in  the  same  high-hung  sitting-room  in  which,  just  a 
week  before,  she  and  Franklin  Ide  had  had  their  memora 
ble  talk. 

She  had  promised  her  friend  to  let  him  hear  from  her, 
but  she  had  not  kept  her  promise.  She  knew  that  he  had 
probably  come  back  from  Chicago,  and  that  if  he  learned 
of  her  sudden  decision  to  return  to  Italy  it  would  be  im 
possible  for  her  not  to  see  him  before  sailing;  and  as  she 
wished  above  all  things  not  to  see  him  she  had  kept 
silent,  intending  to  send  him  a  letter  from  the  steamer. 

There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  wait  till  then  to 
write  it.  The  actual  moment  was  more  favorable,  and 
the  task,  though  not  agreeable,  would  at  least  bridge 
over  an  hour  of  her  lonely  evening.  She  went  up  to  the 
writing-table,  drew  out  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began  to 
write  his  name.  And  as  she  did  so,  the  door  opened  and 
he  came  in. 

[139] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

The  words  she  met  him  with  were  the  last  she  could 
have  imagined  herself  saying  when  they  had  parted.  "How 
in  the  world  did  you  know  that  I  was  here?" 

He  caught  her  meaning  in  a  flash.  "You  didn't  want 
me  to,  then?"  He  stood  looking  at  her.  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  have  taken  your  silence  as  meaning  that.  But  I 
happened  to  meet  Mrs.  Wynn,  who  is  stopping  here,  and 
she  asked  me  to  dine  with  her  and  Charlotte,  and  Char 
lotte's  young  man.  They  told  me  they'd  seen  you  arriving 
this  afternoon,  and  I  couldn't  help  coming  up." 

There  was  a  pause  between  them,  which  Mrs.  Lidcote 
at  last  surprisingly  broke  with  the  exclamation:  "Ah,  she 
did  recognize  me,  then!" 

"Recognize  you?"  He  stared.  "Why—" 

"Oh,  I  saw  she  did,  though  she  never  moved  an  eyelid. 
I  saw  it  by  Charlotte's  blush.  The  child  has  the  prettiest 
blush.  I  saw  that  her  mother  wouldn't  let  her  speak  to 
nie." 

Ide  put  down  his  hat  with  an  impatient  laugh.  "  Hasn't 
Leila  cured  you  of  your  delusions?" 

She  looked  at  him  intently.  "Then  you  don't  think 
Margaret  Wynn  meant  to  cut  me?" 

"I  think  your  ideas  are  absurd." 

She  paused  for  a  perceptible  moment  without  taking 
this  up;  then  she  said,  at  a  tangent:  "I'm  sailing  to 
morrow  early.  I  meant  to  write  to  you — there's  the  letter 
I'd  begun." 

[140] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Ide  followed  her  gesture,  and  then  turned  his  eyes 
back  to  her  face.  "You  didn't  mean  to  see  me,  then,  or 
even  to  let  me  know  that  you  were  going  till  you'd 
left?" 

"I  felt  it  would  be  easier  to  explain  to  you  in  a  letter — 

"What  in  God's  name  is  there  to  explain?"  She  made 
no  reply,  and  he  pressed  on:  "It  can't  be  that  you're  wor 
ried  about  Leila,  for  Charlotte  Wynn  told  me  she'd  been 
there  last  week,  and  there  was  a  big  party  arriving  when 
she  left:  Fresbies  and  Gileses,  and  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger — 
all  the  board  of  examiners !  If  Leila  has  passed  that,  she's 
got  her  degree." 

Mrs.  Lidcote  had  dropped  down  into  a  corner  of  the 
sofa  where  she  had  sat  during  their  talk  of  the  week  before. 
"I  was  stupid,"  she  began  abruptly.  "I  ought  to  have 
gone  to  Ridgefield  with  Susy.  I  didn't  see  till  afterward 
that  I  was  expected  to." 

"You  were  expected  to?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  it  wasn't  Leila's  fault.  She  suffered — poor 
darling;  she  was  distracted.  But  she'd  asked  her  party 
before  she  knew  I  was  arriving." 

"Oh,  as  to  that — "  Ide  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 
"I  can  understand  that  it  must  have  been  a  disappoint 
ment  not  to  have  you  to  herself  just  at  first.  But,  after 
all,  you  were  among  old  friends  or  their  children:  the 
Gileses  and  Fresbies — and  little  Charlotte  Wynn."  He 
paused  a  moment  before  the  last  name,  and  scrutinized 
[1411 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

her  hesitatingly.  "Even  if  they  came  at  the  wrong  time, 
you  must  have  been  glad  to  see  them  all  at  Leila's." 

She  gave  him  back  his  look  with  a  faint  smile.  "I  didn't 
see  them." 

"You  didn't  see  them?" 

"No.  That  is,  excepting  little  Charlotte  Wynn.  That 
child  is  exquisite.  We  had  a  talk  before  luncheon  the  day 
I  arrived.  But  when  her  mother  found  out  that  I  was 
staying  in  the  house  she  telephoned  her  to  leave  im 
mediately,  and  so  I  didn't  see  her  again." 

The  colour  rushed  to  Ide's  sallow  face.  "I  don't  know 
where  you  get  such  ideas !" 

She  pursued,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him:  "Oh,  and  I 
saw  Mary  Giles  for  a  minute  too.  Susy  Suffern  brought  her 
up  to  my  room  the  last  evening,  after  dinner,  when  all 
the  others  were  at  bridge.  She  meant  it  kindly — but  it 
wasn't  much  use." 

"But  what  were  you  doing  in  your  room  in  the  evening 
after  dinner?" 

"Why,  you  see,  when  I  found  out  my  mistake  in  com 
ing, — how  embarrassing  it  was  for  Leila,  I  mean — I 
simply  told  her  I  was  very  tired,  and  preferred  to  stay 
upstairs  till  the  party  was  over." 

Ide,  with  a  groan,  struck  his  hand  against  the  arm  of 
his  chair.  "I  wonder  how  much  of  all  this  you  simply 
imagined ! " 

"I  didn't  imagine  the  fact  of  Harriet  Fresbie's  not  even 
[142] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

asking  if  she  might  see  me  when  she  knew  I  was  in  the 
house.  Nor  of  Mary  Giles's  getting  Susy,  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  to  smuggle  her  up  to  my  room  when  the  others 
wouldn't  know  where  she'd  gone;  nor  poor  Leila's  ghastly 
fear  lest  Mrs.  Lorin  Boulger,  for  whom  the  party  was 
given,  should  guess  I  was  in  the  house,  and  prevent  her 
husband's  giving  Wilbour  the  second  secretaryship  be 
cause  she'd  been  obliged  to  spend  a  night  under  the  same 
roof  with  his  inother-in-law ! " 

Ide  continued  to  drum  on  his  chair-arm  with  exasper 
ated  fingers.  "You  don't  know  that  any  of  the  acts  you 
describe  are  due  to  the  causes  you  suppose." 

Mrs.  Lidcote  paused  before  replying,  as  if  honestly 
trying  to  measure  the  weight  of  this  argument.  Then  she 
said  in  a  low  tone:  "I  know  that  Leila  was  in  an  agony 
lest  I  should  come  down  to  dinner  the  first  night.  And  it 
was  for  me  she  was  afraid,  not  for  herself.  Leila  is  never 
afraid  for  herself." 

"But  the  conclusions  you  draw  are  simply  preposterous. 
There  are  narrow-minded  women  everywhere,  but  the 
women  who  were  at  Leila's  knew  perfectly  well  that 
their  going  there  would  give  her  a  sort  of  social  sanction, 
and  if  they  were  willing  that  she  should  have  it,  why  on 
earth  should  they  want  to  withhold  it  from  you?" 

"That's  what  I  told  myself  a  week  ago,  in  this  very 
roonr,  after  my  first  talk  with  Susy  Suffern."  She  lifted  a 
misty  smile  to  his  anxious  eyes.  "That's  why  I  listened  to 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

what  you  said  to  me  the  same  evening,  and  why  your 
arguments  half  convinced  me,  and  made  me  think  that 
what  had  been  possible  for  Leila  might  not  be  impossible 
for  me.  If  the  new  dispensation  had  come,  why  not  for 
me  as  well  as  for  the  others?  I  can't  tell  you  the  flight 
my  imagination  took!" 

Franklin  Ide  rose  from  his  seat  and  crossed  the  room 
to  a  chair  near  her  sofa-corner.  "All  I  cared  about  was 
that  it  seemed — for  the  moment — to  be  carrying  you 
toward  me,"  he  said. 

"I  cared  about  that,  too.  That's  why  I  meant  to  go 
away  without  seeing  you."  They  gave  each  other  grave 
look  for  look.  "Because,  you  see,  I  was  mistaken,"  she 
went  on.  "We  were  both  mistaken.  You  say  it's  prepos 
terous  that  the  women  who  didn't  object  to  accepting 
Leila's  hospitality  should  have  objected  to  meeting  me 
under  her  roof.  And  so  it  is;  but  I  begin  to  understand 
why.  It's  simply  that  society  is  much  too  busy  to  revise 
its  own  judgments.  Probably  no  one  in  the  house  with 
me  stopped  to  consider  that  my  case  and  Leila's  were 
identical.  They  only  remembered  that  I'd  done  something 
which,  at  the  time  I  did  it,  was  condemned  by  society. 
My  case  has  been  passed  on  and  classified :  I'm  the  woman 
who  has  been  cut  for  nearly  twenty  years.  The  older  peo 
ple  have  half  forgotten  why,  and  the  younger  ones  have 
never  really  known:  it's  simply  become  a  tradition  to 
cut  me.  And  traditions  that  have  lost  their  meaning  are 
the  hardest  of  all  to  destroy." 
[144] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

Ide  sat  motionless  while  she  spoke.  As  she  ended,  he 
stood  up  with  a  short  laugh  and  walked  across  the  room 
to  the  window.  Outside,  the  immense  black  prospect  of 
New  York,  strung  with  its  myriad  lines  of  light,  stretched 
away  into  the  smoky  edges  of  the  night.  He  showed  it  to 
her  with  a  gesture. 

"What  do  you  suppose  such  words  as  you've  been 
using — *  society,'  'tradition,'  and  the  rest — mean  to  all 
the  life  out  there?" 

She  came  and  stood  by  him  in  the  window.  "Less  than 
nothing,  of  course.  But  you  and  I  are  not  out  there. 
We're  shut  up  in  a  little  tight  round  of  habit  and  associa 
tion,  just  as  we're  shut  up  in  this  room.  Remember,  I 
thought  I'd  got  out  of  it  once;  but  what  really  happened 
was  that  the  other  people  went  out,  and  left  me  in  the 
same  little  room.  The  only  difference  was  that  I  was  there 
alone.  Oh,  I've  made  it  habitable  now,  I'm  used  to  it; 
but  I've  lost  any  illusions  I  may  have  had  as  to  an  angel's 
opening  the  door." 

Ide  again  laughed  impatiently.  ''Well,  if  the  door 
won't  open,  why  not  let  another  prisoner  in?  At  least  it 

would  be  less  of  a  solitude — " 

j-*t 

She  turned  from  the  dark  window  back  into  the  vividly 
lighted  room. 

"It  would  be  more  of  a  prison.  You  forget  that  I  know 
all  about  that.  We're  all  imprisoned,  of  course — all  of  us 
middling  people,  who  don't  carry  our  freedom  in  our  brains. 
But  we've  accommodated  ourselves  to  our  different  cells, 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

and  if  we're  moved  suddenly  into  new  ones  we're  likely 
to  find  a  stone  wall  where  we  thought  there  was  thin  air, 
and  to  knock  ourselves  senseless  against  it.  I  saw  a  man 
do  that  once." 

Ide,  leaning  with  folded  arms  against  the  window- 
frame,  watched  her  in  silence  as  she  moved  restlessly 
about  the  room,  gathering  together  some  scattered  books 
and  tossing  a  handful  of  torn  letters  into  the  paper- 
basket.  When  she  ceased,  he  rejoined:  "All  you  say  is 
based  on  preconceived  theories.  Why  didn't  you  put  them 
to  the  test  by  coming  down  to  meet  your  old  friends? 
Don't  you  see  the  inference  they  would  naturally  draw 
from  your  hiding  yourself  when  they  arrived?  It  looked 
as  though  you  were  afraid  of  them — or  as  though  you 
hadn't  forgiven  them.  Either  way,  you  put  them  in  the 
wrong  instead  of  waiting  to  let  them  put  you  in  the  right. 
If  Leila  had  buried  herself  in  a  desert  do  you  suppose 
society  would  have  gone  to  fetch  her  out?  You  say  you 
were  afraid  for  Leila  and  that  she  was  afraid  for  you. 
Don't  you  see  what  all  these  complications  of  feeling  mean  ? 
Simply  that  you  were  too  nervous  at  the  moment  to  let 
things  happen  naturally,  just  as  you're  too  nervous  now 
to  judge  them  rationally."  He  paused  and  turned  his 
eyes  to  her  face.  "Don't  try  to  just  yet.  Give  yourself  a 
little  more  time.  Give  me  a  little  more  time.  I've  always 
known  it  would  take  time." 

He  moved  nearer,  and  she  let  him  have  her  hand. 
1 146] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

With  the  grave  kindness  of  his  face  so  close  above  her 
she  felt  like  a  child  roused  out  of  frightened  dreams  and 
finding  a  light  in  the  room. 

"Perhaps  you're  right — "  she  heard  herself  begin;  then 
something  within  her  clutched  her  back,  and  her  hand 
fell  away  from  him. 

"I  know  I'm  right:  trust  me,"  he  urged.  "We'll  talk 
of  this  in  Florence  soon." 

She  stood  before  him,  feeling  with  despair  his  kindness, 
his  patience  and  his  unreality.  Everything  he  said  seemed 
like  a  painted  gauze  let  down  between  herself  and  the 
real  facts  of  life;  and  a  sudden  desire  seized  her  to  tear 
the  gauze  into  shreds. 

She  drew  back  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  of  super 
ficial  reassurance.  "You  are  right — about  not  talking  any 
longer  now.  I'm  nervous  and  tired,  and  it  would  do  no 
good.  I  brood  over  things  too  much.  As  you  say,  I  must 
try  not  to  shrink  from  people."  She  turned  away  and 
glanced  at  the  clock.  "Why,  it's  only  ten!  If  I  send  you 
off  I  shall  begin  to  brood  again;  and  if  you  stay  we  shall 
go  on  talking  about  the  same  thing.  Why  shouldn't  we 
go  down  and  see  Margaret  Wynn  for  half  an  hour?" 

She  spoke  lightly  and  rapidly,  her  brilliant  eyes  on  his 
face.  As  she  watched  him,  she  saw  it  change,  as  if  her 
smile  had  thrown  a  too  vivid  light  upon  it. 

"Oh,  no — not  to-night!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Not  to-night?  Why,  what  other  night  have  I,  when 
[147] 


AUTRES    TEMPS... 

I'm  off  at  dawn?  Besides,  I  want  to  show  you  at  once 
that  I  mean  to  be  more  sensible — that  I'm  not  going  to 
be  afraid  of  people  any  more.  And  I  should  really  like 
another  glimpse  of  little  Charlotte."  He  stood  before  her, 
his  hand  in  his  beard,  with  the  gesture  he  had  in  moments 
of  perplexity.  "Come!"  she  ordered  him  gaily,  turning 
to  the  door. 

He  followed  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "Don't 
you  think — hadn't  you  better  let  me  go  first  and  see? 
They  told  me  they'd  had  a  tiring  day  at  the  dressmaker's. 
I  daresay  they  have  gone  to  bed." 

"But  you  said  they'd  a  young  man  of  Charlotte's  dining 
with  them.  Surely  he  wouldn't  have  left  by  ten?  At  any 
rate,  I'll  go  down  with  you  and  see.  It  takes  so  long  if  one 
sends  a  servant  first."  She  put  him  gently  aside,  and  then 
paused  as  a  new  thought  struck  her.  "Or  wait;  my  maid's 
in  the  next  room.  I'll  tell  her  to  go  and  ask  if  Margaret 
will  receive  me.  Yes,  that's  much  the  best  way." 

She  turned  back  and  went  toward  the  door  that  led 
to  her  bedroom;  but  before  she  could  open  it  she  felt 
Ide's  quick  touch  again. 

"I  believe — I  remember  now — Charlotte's  young  man 
was  suggesting  that  they  should  all  go  out — to  a  music- 
hall  or  something  of  the  sort.  I'm  sure — I'm  positively 
sure  that  you  won't  find  them." 

Her  hand  dropped  from  the  door,  his  dropped  from  her 
arm,  and  as  they  drew  back  and  faced  each  other  she 
[  148  1 


AUTRES    TEMPS.  .. 

saw  the  blood  rise  slowly  through  his  sallow  skin,  redden 
his  neck  and  ears,  encroach  upon  the  edges  of  his  beard, 
and  settle  in  dull  patches  under  his  kind  troubled  eyes. 
She  had  seen  the  same  blush  on  another  face,  and  the 
same  impulse  of  compassion  she  had  then  felt  made  her 
turn  her  gaze  away  again. 

A  knock  on  the  door  broke  the  silence,  and  a  porter 
put  his  head  into  the  room. 

"It's  only  just  to  know  how  many  pieces  there'll  be  to 
go  down  to  the  steamer  in  the  morning." 

With  the  words  she  felt  that  the  veil  of  painted  gauze 
was  torn  in  tatters,  and  that  she  was  moving  again  among 
the  grim  edges  of  reality. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  never  can  remember! 
Wait  a  minute;  I  shall  have  to  ask  my  maid." 

She  opened  her  bedroom  door  and  called  out:  "An 
nette!" 


[149] 


KERFOL 


KERFOL 
I 

"XTOU  ought  to  buy  it,"  said  my  host;  "it's  just  the 
place  for  a  solitary-minded  devil  like  you.  And  it 
would  be  rather  worth  while  to  own  the  most  ro 
mantic  house  in  Brittany.  The  present  people  are  dead 
broke,  and  it's  going  for  a  song — you  ought  to  buy  it." 

It  was  not  with  the  least  idea  of  living  up  to  the  char 
acter  my  friend  Lanrivain  ascribed  to  me  (as  a  matter 
of  fact,  under  my  unsociable  exterior  I  have  always  had 
secret  yearnings  for  domesticity)  that  I  took  his  hint  one 
autumn  afternoon  and  went  to  Kerfol.  My  friend  was 
motoring  over  to  Quimper  on  business:  he  dropped  me 
on  the  way,  at  a  cross-road  on  a  heath,  and  said:  "First 
turn  to  the  right  and  second  to  the  left.  Then  straight 
ahead  till  you  see  an  avenue.  If  you  meet  any  peasants, 
don't  ask  your  way.  They  don't  understand  French,  and 
they  would  pretend  they  did  and  mix  you  up.  I'll  be  back 
for  you  here  by  sunset — and  don't  forget  the  tombs  in 
^the"  chapel." 

I  followed  Lanrivain's  directions  with  the  hesitation 
occasioned  by  the  usual  difficulty  of  remembering  whether 
lie  had  said  the  first  turn  to  the  right  and  second  to  the 
[  153  ] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

left,  or  the  contrary.  If  I  had  met  a  peasant  I  should 
certainly  have  asked,  and  probably  been  sent  astray; 
but  I  had  the  desert  landscape  to  myself,  and  so  stumbled 
on  the  right  turn  and  walked  across  the  heath  till  I  came 
to  an  avenue.  It  was  so  unlike  any  other  avenue  I  have 
ever  seen  that  I  instantly  knew  it  must  be  the  avenue. 
The  grey-trunked  trees  sprang  up  straight  to  a  great 
height  and  then  interwove  their  pale-grey  branches  in 
a  long  tunnel  through  which  the  autumn  light  fell  faintly. 
I  know  most  trees  by  name,  but  I  haven't  to  this  day 
been  able  to  decide  what  those  trees  were.  They  had  the 
tall  curve  of  elms,  the  tenuity  of  poplars,  the  ashen  colour 
of  olives  under  a  rainy  sky;  and  they  stretched  ahead  of 
me  for  half  a  mile  or  more  without  a  break  in  their  arch. 
If  ever  I  saw  an  avenue  that  unmistakably  led  to  some 
thing,  it  was  the  avenue  at  Kerfol.  My  heart  beat  a  little 
as  I  began  to  walk  down  it. 

Presently  the  trees  ended  and  I  came  to  a  fortified  gate 
in  a  long  wall.  Between  me  and  the  wall  was  an  open 
space  of  grass,  with  other  grey  avenues  radiating  from  it. 
Behind  the  wall  were  tall  slate  roofs  mossed  with  silver, 
a  chapel  belfry,  the  top  of  a  keep.  A  moat  filled  with  wild 
shrubs  and  brambles  surrounded  the  place;  the  draw 
bridge  had  been  replaced  by  a  stone  arch,  and  the  port 
cullis  by  an  iron  gate.  I  stood  for  a  long  time  on  the 
hither  side  of  the  moat,  gazing  about  me,  and  letting  the 
influence  of  the  place  sink  in.  I  said  to  myself:  "If  I  wait 
I  W4  ] 


KERFOL 

long  enough,  the  guardian  will  turn  up  and  show  me  the 
tombs — "  and  I  rather  hoped  he  wouldn't  turn  up  too 
soon. 

I  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  lit  a  cigarette.  As  soon  as  I 
had  done  it,  it  struck  me  as  a  puerile  and  portentous 
thing  to  do,  with  that  great  blind  house  looking  down  at 
me,  and  all  the  empty  avenues  converging  on  me.  It  may 
have  been  the  depth  of  the  silence  that  made  me  so  con 
scious  of  my  gesture.  The  squeak  of  my  match  sounded 
as  loud  as  the  scraping  of  a  brake,  and  I  almost  fancied 
I  heard  it  fall  when  I  tossed  it  onto  the  grass.  But  there 
was  more  than  that:  a  sense  of  irrelevance,  of  littleness, 
of  futile  bravado,  in  sitting  there  puffing  my  cigarette- 
smoke  into  the  face  of  such  a  past. 

I  knew  nothing  of  the  history  of  Kerfol — I  was  new  to 
Brittany,  and  Lanrivain  had  never  mentioned  the  name 
to  me  till  the  day  before — but  one  couldn't  as  much  as 
glance  at  that  pile  without  feeling  in  it  a  long  accumula 
tion  of  history.  What  kind  of  history  I  was  not  prepared 
to  guess:  perhaps  only  that  sheer  weight  of  many  asso 
ciated  lives  and  deaths  which  gives  a  majesty  to  all  old 
houses.  But  the  aspect  of  Kerfol  suggested  something 
more — a  perspective  of  stern  and  cruel  memories  stretch 
ing  away,  like  its  own  grey  avenues,  into  a  blur  of  dark 
ness. 

Certainly  no  house  had  ever  more  completely  and  finally 
broken  with  the  present.  As  it  stood  there,  lifting  its  proud 
[155] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

roofs  and  gables  to  the  sky,  it  might  have  been  its  own 
funeral  monument.  "Tombs  in  the  chapel?  The  whole 
place  is  a  tomb!"  I  reflected.  I  hoped  more  and  more 
that  the  guardian  would  not  come.  The  details  of  the 
place,  however  striking,  would  seem  trivial  compared  with 
its  collective  impressi veness ;  and  I  wanted  only  to  sit 
there  and  be  penetrated  by  the  weight  of  its  silence. 

"It's  the  very  place  for  you!"  Lanrivain  had  said; 
and  I  was  overcome  by  the  almost  blasphemous  frivolity 
of  suggesting  to  any  living  being  that  Kerfol  was  the 
place  for  him.  "Is  it  possible  that  any  one  could  not 
see — ?"  I  wondered.  I  did  not  finish  the  thought:  what 
I  meant  was  undefinable.  I  stood  up  and  wandered  toward 
the  gate.  I  was  beginning  to  want  to  know  more;  not  to 
see  more — I  was  by  now  so  sure  it  was  not  a  question  of 
seeing — but  to  feel  more:  feel  all  the  place  had  to  com 
municate.  "But  to  get  in  one  will  have  to  rout  out  the 
keeper,"  I  thought  reluctantly,  and  hesitated.  Finally  I 
crossed  the  bridge  and  tried  the  iron  gate.  It  yielded, 
and  I  walked  through  the  tunnel  formed  by  the  thickness 
of  the  chernin  de  ronde.  At  the  farther  end,  a  wooden 
barricade  had  been  laid  across  the  entrance,  and  beyond 
it  was  a  court  enclosed  in  noble  architecture.  The  main 
building  faced  me;  and  I  now  saw  that  one  half  was  a 
mere  ruined  front,  with  gaping  windows  through  which 
the  wild  growths  of  the  moat  and  the  trees  of  the  park 
were  visible.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  still  in  its  robust 
[1561 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

beauty.  One  end  abutted  on  the  round  tower,  the  other 
on  the  small  traceried  chapel,  and  in  an  angle  of  the 
building  stood  a  graceful  well-head  crowned  with  mossy 
urris.  A  few  roses  grew  against  the  walls,  and  on  an  upper 
window-sill  I  remember  noticing  a  pot  of  fuchsias. 

My  sense  of  the  pressure  of  the  invisible  began  to 
yield  to  my  architectural  interest.  The  building  was  so 
fine  that  I  felt  a  desire  to  explore  it  for  its  own  sake.  I 
looked  about  the  court,  wondering  in  which  corner  the 
guardian  lodged.  Then  I  pushed  open  the  barrier  and 
went  in.  As  I  did  so,  a  dog  barred  my  way.  He  was  such 
a  remarkably  beautiful  little  dog  that  for  a  moment  he 
made  me  forget  the  splendid  place  he  was  defending.  I 
was  not  sure  of  his  breed  at  the  time,  but  have  since 
learned  that  it  was  Chinese,  and  that  he  was  of  a  rare 
variety  called  the  "Sleeve-dog."  He  was  very  small  and 
golden  brown,  with  large  brown  eyes  and  a  ruffled  throat: 
he  looked  like  a  large  tawny  chrysanthemum.  I  said  to 
myself:  "These  little  beasts  always  snap  and  scream, 
and  somebody  will  be  out  in  a  minute." 

The  little  animal  stood  before  me,  forbidding,  almost 
menacing:  there  was  anger  in  his  large  brown  eyes.  But 
he  made  no  sound,  he  came  no  nearer.  Instead,  as  I  ad 
vanced,  he  gradually  fell  back,  and  I  noticed  that  another 
dog,  a  vague  rough  brindled  thing,  had  limped  up  on  a 
lame  leg.  "There'll  be  a  hubbub  now,"  I  thought;  for  at 
the  same  moment  a  third  dog,  a  long-haired  white  mon- 
f  1371 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

grel,  slipped  out  of  a  doorway  and  joined  the  others.  All 
three  stood  looking  at  me  with  grave  eyes;  but  not  a 
sound  came  from  them.  As  I  advanced  they  continued  to 
fall  back  on  muffled  paws,  still  watching  me.  "At  a  given 
point,  they'll  all  charge  at  my  ankles :  it's  one  of  the  jokes 
that  dogs  who  live  together  put  up  on  one,"  I  thought. 
I  was  not  alarmed,  for  they  were  neither  large  nor  for 
midable.  But  they  let  me  wander  about  the  court  as  I 
pleased,  following  me  at  a  little  distance — always  the 
same  distance — and  always  keeping  their  eyes  on  me. 
Presently  I  looked  across  at  the  ruined  fagade,  and  saw 
that  in  one  of  its  empty  window-frames  another  dog 
stood:  a  white  pointer  with  one  brown  ear.  He  was  an 
old  grave  dog, much  more  experienced  than  the  others;  and 
he  seemed  to  be  observing  me  with  a  deeper  intentness. 
"I'll  hear  from  him,"  I  said  to  myself;  but  he  stood  in 
the  window-frame,  against  the  trees  of  the  park,  and  con 
tinued  to  watch  me  without  moving.  I  stared  back  at 
him  for  a  time,  to  see  if  the  sense  that  he  was  being 
watched  would  not  rouse  him.  Half  the  width  of  the  court 
lay  between  us,  and  we  gazed  at  each  other  silently  across 
it.  But  he  did  not  stir,  and  at  last  I  turned  away.  Behind 
me  I  found  the  rest  of  the  pack,  with  a  newcomer  added: 
a  small  black  greyhound  with  pale  agate-coloured  eyes. 
He  was  shivering  a  little,  and  his  expression  was  more 
timid  than  that  of  the  others.  I  noticed  that  he  kept  a 
little  behind  them.  And  still  there  was  not  a  sound. 
[158] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

I  stood  there  for  fully  five  minutes,  the  circle  about  me 
— waiting,  as  they  seemed  to  be  waiting.  At  last  I  went 
up  to  the  little  golden-brown  dog  and  stooped  to  pat  him. 
As  I  did  so,  I  heard  myself  give  a  nervous  laugh.  The 
little  dog  did  not  start,  or  growl,  or  take  his  eyes  from 
me — he  simply  slipped  back  about  a  yard,  and  then 
paused  and  continued  to  look  at  me.  "Oh,  hang  it!"  I 
exclaimed,  and  walked  across  the  court  toward  the  well. 

As  I  advanced,  the  dogs  separated  and  slid  away  into 
different  corners  of  the  court.  I  examined  the  urns  on 
the  well,  tried  a  locked  door  or  two,  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  dumb  fagade;  then  I  faced  about  toward  the 
chapel.  When  I  turned  I  perceived  that  all  the  dogs  had 
disappeared  except  the  old  pointer,  who  still  watched  me 
from  the  window.  It  was  rather  a  relief  to  be  rid  of  that 
cloud  of  witnesses;  and  I  began  to  look  about  me  for  a 
way  to  the  back  of  the  house.  "Perhaps  there'll  be  some 
body  in  the  garden,"  I  thought.  I  found  a  way  across  the 
moat,  scrambled  over  a  wall  smothered  in  brambles,  and 
got  into  the  garden.  A  few  lean  hydrangeas  and  gerani 
ums  pined  in  the  flower-beds,  and  the  ancient  house  looked 
down  on  them  indifferently.  Its  garden  side  was  plainer 
and  severer  than  the  other:  the  long  granite  front,  with 
its  few  windows  and  steep  roof,  looked  like  a  fortress- 
prison.  I  walked  around  the  farther  wing,  went  up  some 
disjointed  steps,  and  entered  the  deep  twilight  of  a  narrow 
and  incredibly  old  box-walk.  The  walk  was  just  wide 
[  159  1 


KERFOL 

enough  for  one  person  to  slip  through,  and  its  branches 
met  overhead.  It  was  like  the  ghost  of  a  box-walk,  its 
lustrous  green  all  turning  to  the  shadowy  greyness  of 
the  avenues.  I  walked  on  and  on,  the  branches  hitting  me 
hi  the  face  and  springing  back  with  a  dry  rattle;  and  at 
length  I  came  out  on  the  grassy  top  of  the  chemin  de 
ronde.  I  walked  along  it  to  the  gate-tower,  looking  down 
into  the  court,  which  was  just  below  me.  Not  a  human 
being  was  in  sight;  and  neither  were  the  dogs.  I  found  a 
flight  of  steps  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall  and  went  down 
them;  and  when  I  emerged  again  into  the  court,  there 
stood  the  circle  of  dogs,  the  golden-brown  one  a  little 
ahead  of  the  others,  the  black  greyhound  shivering  in  the 
rear. 

"Oh,  hang  it — you  uncomfortable  beasts,  you!"  I 
exclaimed,  my  voice  startling  me  with  a  sudden  echo. 
The  dogs  stood  motionless,  watching  me.  I  knew  by  this 
time  that  they  would  not  try  to  prevent  my  approaching 
the  house,  and  the  knowledge  left  me  free  to  examine 
them.  I  had  a  feeling  that  they  must  be  horribly  cowed 
to  be  so  silent  and  inert.  Yet  they  did  not  look  hungry 
or  ill-treated.  Their  coats  were  smooth  and  they  were 
not  thin,  except  the  shivering  greyhound.  It  was  more  as 
if  they  had  lived  a  long  time  "with  people  who  never  spoke 
to  them  or  looked  at  them:  as  though  the  silence  of  the 
place  had  gradually  benumbed  their  busy  inquisitive  na 
tures.  And  this  strange  passivity,  this  almost  human  lassi- 
[160] 


KERFOL 

tude,  seemed  to  me  sadder  than  the  misery  of  starved 
and  beaten  animals.  I  should  have  liked  to  rouse  them  for 
a  minute,  to  coax  them  into  a  game  or  a  scamper;  but 
the  longer  I  looked  into  their  fixed  and  weary  eyes  the 
more  preposterous  the  idea  became.  With  the  windows 
of  that  house  looking  down  on  us,  how  could  I  have 
imagined  such  a  thing  ?  The  dogs  knew  better :  they  knew 
what  the  house  would  tolerate  and  what  it  would  not. 
I  even  fancied  that  they  knew  what  was  passing  through 
my  mind,  and  pitied  me  for  my  frivolity.  But  even  that 
feeling  probably  reached  them  through  a  thick  fog  of 
listlessness.  I  had  an  idea  that  their  distance  from  me 
was  as  nothing  to  my  remoteness  from  them.  The  im 
pression  they  produced  was  that  of  having  in  common 
one  memory  so  deep  and  dark  that  nothing  that  had 
happened  since  was  worth  either  a  growl  or  a  wag. 

"I  say,"  I  broke  out  abruptly,  addressing  myself  to 
the  dumb  circle,  "do  you  know  whafc  you  look  like,  the 
whole  lot  of  you?  You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost — 
that's  how  you  look!  I  wonder  if  there  is  a  ghost  here, 
and  nobody  but  you  left  for  it  to  appear  to?"  The  dogs 
continued  to  gaze  at  me  without  moving.  .  .  . 

It  was  dark  when  I  saw  Lanrivain's  motor  lamps  at 
the  cross-roads — and  I  wasn't  exactly  sorry  to  see  them. 
I  had  the  sense  of  having  escaped  from  the  loneliest  place 
in  the  whole  world,  and  of  not  liking  loneliness — to  that 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

degree — as  much  as  I  had  imagined  I  should.  My  friend 
had  brought  his  solicitor  back  from  Quimper  for  the  night, 
and  seated  beside  a  fat  and  affable  stranger  I  felt  no  in 
clination  to  talk  of  Kerfol. . . . 

But  that  evening,  when  Lanrivain  and  the  solicitor 
were  closeted  in  the  study,  Madame  de  Lanrivain  began 
to  question  me  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Well — are  you  going  to  buy  Kerfol?"  she  asked, 
tilting  up  her  gay  chin  from  her  embroidery. 

"I  haven't  decided  yet.  The  fact  is,  I  couldn't  get  into 
the  house,"  I  said,  as  if  I  had  simply  postponed  my  de 
cision,  and  meant  to  go  back  for  another  look. 

"You  couldn't  get  in?  Why,  what  happened?  The 
family  are  mad  to  sell  the  place,  and  the  old  guardian 
has  orders — " 

"Very  likely.  But  the  old  guardian  wasn't  there." 

"What  a  pity!  He  must  have  gone  to  market.  But  his 
daughter —  ?  " 

"There  was  nobody  about.  At  least  I  saw  no  one." 

"How  extraordinary!  Literally  nobody?" 

"Nobody  but  a  lot  of  dogs — a  whole  pack  of  them — 
who  seemed  to  have  the  place  to  themselves." 

Madame  de  Lanrivain  let  the  embroidery  slip  to  her 
knee  and  folded  her  hands  on  it.  For  several  minutes  she 
looked  at  me  thoughtfully. 

"A  pack  of  dogs — you  saw  them?" 

"Saw  them?  I  saw  nothing  else!" 

f.  ice  1 


KERFOL 

"How  many?"  She  dropped  her  voice  a  little.  "I've 
always  wondered — •" 

I  looked  at  her  with  surprise:  I  had  supposed  the  place 
to  be  familiar  to  her.  "Have  you  never  been  to  Kerfol?" 
I  asked. 

"Oh,  yes:  often.  But  never  on  that  day." 

"What  day?" 

"I'd  quite  forgotten — and  so  had  Herve,  I'm  sure.  If 
we'd  remembered,  we  never  should  have  sent  you  to-day 
— but  then,  after  all,  one  doesn't  half  believe  that  sort  of 
thing,  does  one?" 

"What  sort  of  thing?"  I  asked,  involuntarily  sinking 
my  voice  to  the  level  of  hers.  Inwardly  I  was  thinking: 
"I  knew  there  was  something. ..." 

Madame  de  Lanrivain  cleared  her  throat  and  produced 
a  reassuring  smile.  "Didn't  Herve  tell  you  the  story  of 
Kerfol  ?  An  ancestor  of  his  was  mixed  up  in  it.  You  know 
every  Breton  house  has  its  ghost-story;  and  some  of  them 
are  rather  unpleasant." 

"Yes— but  those  dogs?" 

"Well,  those  dogs  are  the  ghosts  of  Kerfol.  At  least, 
the  peasants  say  there's  one  day  in  the  year  when  a  lot 
.  of  dogs  appear  there;  and  that  day  the  keeper  and  his 
daughter  go  off  to  Morlaix  and  get  drunk.  The  women  in 
Brittany  drink  dreadfully."  She  stooped  to  match  a  silk; 
then  she  lifted  her  charming  inquisitive  Parisian  face. 
"Did  you  really  see  a  lot  of  dogs?  There  isn't  one  at  Ker 
fol,"  she  said. 

[163] 


KERFOL 


II 


TANRIVAIN,  the  next  day,  hunted  out  a  shabby  calf 
••— '  volume  from  the  back  of  an  upper  shelf  of  his  li 
brary. 

"Yes — here  it  is.  What  does  it  call  itself?  A  History  of 
the  Assizes  of  the  Duchy  of  Brittany.  Quimper,  1702.  The 
book  was  written  about  a  hundred  years  later  than  the 
Kerfol  affair;  but  I  believe  the  account  is  transcribed 
pretty  literally  from  the  judicial  records.  Anyhow,  it's 
queer  reading.  And  there's  a  Herve  de  Lanrivain  mixed 
up  in  it — not  exactly  my  style,  as  you'll  see.  But  then  he's 
only  a  collateral.  Here,  take  the  book  up  to  bed  with  you. 
I  don't  exactly  remember  the  details;  but  after  you've 
read  it  I'll  bet  anything  you'll  leave  your  light  burning 
all  night!" 

I  left  my  light  burning  all  night,  as  he  had  predicted; 
but  it  was  chiefly  because,  till  near  dawn,  I  was  absorbed 
in  my  reading.  The  account  of  the  trial  of  Anne  de  Cor- 
nault,  wife  of  the  lord  of  Kerfol,  was  long  and  closely 
printed.  It  was,  as  my  friend  had  said,  probably  an  almost 
literal  transcription  of  what  took  place  in  the  court-room; 
and  the  trial  lasted  nearly  a  month.  Besides,  the  type  of 
the  book  was  very  bad.  .  .  . 

At  first  I  thought  of  translating  the  old  record.  But  it 
is  full  of  wearisome  repetitions,  arid  the  main  lines  of  the 


KERFOL 

story  are  forever  straying  off  into  side  issues.  So  I  have 
tried  to  disentangle  it,  and  give  it  here  in  a  simpler  form. 
At  times,  however,  I  have  reverted  to  the  text  because 
no  other  words  could  have  conveyed  so  exactly  the  sense 
of  what  I  felt  at  Kerfol;  and  nowhere  have  I  added  any 
thing  of  my  own. 


I 


Ill 


T  was  in  the  year  16 —  that  Yves  de  Cornault,  lord  of 
the  domain  of  Kerfol,  went  to  the  pardon  of  Locronan 
to  perform  his  religious  duties.  He  was  a  rich  and  power 
ful  noble,  then  in  his  sixty-second  year,  but  hale  and 
sturdy,  a  great  horseman  and  hunter  and  a  pious  man. 
So  all  his  neighbours  attested.  In  appearance  he  was  short 
and  broad,  with  a  swarthy  face,  legs  slightly  bowed  from 
the  saddle,  a  hanging  nose  and  broad  hands  with  black 
hairs  on  them.  He  had  married  young  and  lost  his  wife 
and  son  soon  after,  and  since  then  had  lived  alone  at 
Kerfol.  Twice  a  year  he  went  to  Morlaix,  where  he  had  a 
handsome  house  by  the  river,  and  spent  a  week  or  ten 
days  there;  and  occasionally  he  rode  to  Rennes  on  busi 
ness.  Witnesses  were  found  to  declare  that  during  these 
absences  he  led  a  life  different  from  the  one  he  was  known 
to  lead  at  Kerfol,  where  he  busied  himself  with  his  estate, 
attended  mass  daily,  and  found  his  only  amusement  in 
hunting  the  wild  boar  and  water-fowl.  But  these  rumours 
f  16,51 


KERFOL 

arc  not  particularly  relevant,  and  it  is  certain  that  among 
people  of  his  own  class  in  the  neighbourhood  he  passed 
for  a  stern  and  even  austere  man,  observant  of  his  relig 
ious  obligations,  and  keeping  strictly  to  himself.  There 
was  no  talk  of  any  familiarity  with  the  women  on  his 
estate,  though  at  that  time  the  nobility  were  very  free 
with  their  peasants.  Some  people  said  he  had  never  looked 
at  a  woman  since  his  wife's  death;  but  such  things  are 
hard  to  prove,  and  the  evidence  on  this  point  was  not 
worth  much. 

Well,  in  his  sixty-second  year,  Yves  de  Cornault  went 
to  the  pardon  at  Locronan,  and  saw  there  a  young  lady 
of  Douarnenez,  who  had  ridden  over  pillion  behind  her 
father  to  do  her  duty  to  the  saint.  Her  name  was  Anne 
de  Barrigan,  and  she  came  of  good  old  Breton  stock,  but 
much  less  great  and  powerful  than  that  of  Yves  de  Cor- 
nault;  and  her  father  had  squandered  his  fortune  at 
cards,  and  lived  almost  like  a  peasant  in  his  little  granite 
manor  on  the  moors.  ...  I  have  said  I  would  add  nothing 
of  niy  own  to  this  bald  statement  of  a  strange  case;  but 
I  must  interrupt  myself  here  to  describe  the  young  lady 
who  rode  up  to  the  lych-gate  of  Locronan  at  the  very  mo 
ment  when  the  Baron  de  Cornault  was  also  dismounting 
there.  I  take  my  description  from  a  faded  drawing  in 
red  crayon,  sober  and  truthful  enough  to  be  by  a  late 
pupil  of  the  Clouets,  which  hangs  in  Lanrivain's  study, 
and  is  said  to  be  a  portrait  of  Anne  de  Barrigan.  It  is  un- 
[W] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

signed  and  has  no  mark  of  identity  but  the  initials  A.  B., 
and  the  date  16 — ,  the  year  after  her  marriage.  It  rep 
resents  a  young  woman  with  a  small  oval  face,  almost 
pointed,  yet  wide  enough  for  a  full  mouth  with  a  tender 
depression  at  the  corners.  The  nose  is  small,  and  the  eye 
brows  are  set  rather  high,  far  apart,  and  as  lightly  pen 
cilled  as  the  eyebrows  in  a  Chinese  painting.  The  forehead 
is  high  and  serious,  and  the  hair,  which  one  feels  to  be 
fine  and  thick  and  fair,  is  drawn  off  it  and  lies  close  like 
a  cap.  The  eyes  are  neither  large  nor  small,  hazel  prob 
ably,  with  a  look  at  once  shy  and  steady.  A  pair  of  beau 
tiful  long  hands  are  crossed  below  the  lady's  breast.  .  .  . 

The  chaplain  of  Kerfol,  and  other  witnesses,  averred 
that  when  the  Baron  came  back  from  Locronan  he 
jumped  from  his  horse,  ordered  another  to  be  instantly 
saddled,  called  to  a  young  page  to  come  with  him,  and 
rode  away  that  same  evening  to  the  south.  His  steward 
followed  the  next  morning  with  coffers  laden  on  a  pair  of 
pack  mules.  The  following  week  Yves  de  Cornault  rode 
back  to  Kerfol,  sent  for  his  vassals  and  tenants,  and  told 
them  he  was  to  be  married  at  All  Saints  to  Anne  de 
Barrigan  of  Douarnenez.  And  on  All  Saints'  Day  the  mar 
riage  took  place. 

As  to  the  next  few  years,  the  evidence  on  both  sides 

seems  to  show  that  they  passed  happily  for  the  couple. 

No  one  was  found  to  say  that  Yves  de  Cornault  had  been 

unkind  to  his  wife,  and  it  was  plain  to  all  that  he  was 

[1G7] 


K  E  R  P  O  L 

content  with  his  bargain.  Indeed,  it  was  admitted  by  the 
chaplain  and  other  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  thai 
the  young  lady  had  a  softening  influence  on  her  husband, 
and  that  he  became  less  exacting  with  his  tenants,  less 
harsh  to  peasants  and  dependents,  arid  less  subject  to  the 
fits  of  gloomy  silence  which  had  darkened  his  widowhood. 
As  to  his  wife,  the  only  grievance  her  champions  could 
call  up  in  her  behalf  was  that  Kerfol  was  a  lonely  place, 
and  that  when  her  husband  was  away  on  business  at 
Rennes  or  Morlaix — whither  she  was  never  taken — she 
was  not  allowed  so  much  as  to  walk  in  the  park  unac 
companied.  But  no  one  asserted  that  she  was  unhappy, 
though  one  servant-woman  said  she  had  surprised  her 
crying,  and  had  heard  her  say  that  she  was  a  woman 
accursed  to  have  no  child,  and  nothing  in  life  to  call  her 
own.  But  that  was  a  natural  enough  feeling  in  a  wife 
attached  to  her  husband;  and  certainly  it  must  have 
been  a  great  grief  to  Yves  de  Cornault  that  she  bore  no 
son.  Yet  he  never  made  her  feel  her  childlessness  as  a 
reproach — she  admits  this  in  her  evidence — but  seemed 
to  try  to  make  her  forget  it  by  showering  gifts  and  fa 
vours  on  her.  Rich  though  he  was,  he  had  never  been  open- 
handed;  but  nothing  was  too  fine  for  his  wife,  in  the 
way  of  silks  or  gems  or  linen,  or  whatever  else  she  fancied. 
Every  wandering  merchant  was  welcome  at  Kerfol,  and 
when  the  master  was  called  away  he  never  came  back 
without  bringing  his  wife  a  handsome  present — somc- 
[168] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

thing  curious  and  particular — from  Morlaix  or  Rennes  or 
Quimper.  One  of  the  waiting-women  gave,  in  cross- 
examination,  an  interesting  list  of  one  year's  gifts,  which 
I  copy.  From  Morlaix,  a  carved  ivory  junk,  with  China 
men  at  the  oars,  that  a  strange  sailor  had  brought  back 
as  a  votive  offering  for  Notre  Dame  de  la  Clarte,  above 
Ploumanac'h;  from  Quimper,  an  embroidered  gown, 
worked  by  the  nuns  of  the  Assumption;  from  Rennes,  a 
silver  rose  that  opened  and  showed  an  amber  Virgin 
with  a  crown  of  garnets;  from  Morlaix,  again,  a  length 
of  Damascus  velvet  shot  with  gold,  bought  of  a  Jew  from 
Syria;  and  for  Michaelmas  that  same  year,  from  Rennes, 
a  necklet  or  bracelet  of  round  stones — emeralds  and 
pearls  and  rubies — strung  like  beads  on  a  fine  gold  chain. 
This  was  the  present  that  pleased  the  lady  best,  the 
woman  said.  Later  on,  as  it  happened,  it  was  produced 
at  the  trial,  and  appears  to  have  struck  the  Judges  and 
the  public  as  a  curious  and  valuable  jewel. 

The  very  same  winter,  the  Baron  absented  himself 
again,  this  time  as  far  as  Bordeaux,  and  on  his  return  he 
brought  his  wife  something  even  odder  and  prettier  than 
the  bracelet.  It  was  a  winter  evening  when  he  rode  up 
to  Kerfol  and,  walking  into  the  hall,  found  her  sitting 
by  the  hearth,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  looking  into  the 
fire.  He  carried  a  velvet  box  in  his  hand  and,  setting  it 
down,  lifted  the  lid  and  let  out  a  little  golden-brown  dog. 

Anne  de  Cornault  exclaimed  with  pleasure  as  the  little 
[109] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

creature  bounded  toward  her.  "Oh,  it  looks  like  a  bird 
or  a  butterfly!"  she  cried  as  she  picked  it  up;  and  the 
dog  put  its  paws  on  her  shoulders  and  looked  at  her  with 
eyes  "like  a  Christian's."  After  that  she  would  never  have 
it  out  of  her  sight,  and  petted  and  talked  to  it  as  if  it 
had  been  a  child — as  indeed  it  was  the  nearest  thing  to 
a  child  she  was  to  know.  Yves  de  Cornault  was  much 
pleased  with  his  purchase.  The  dog  had  been  brought  to 
him  by  a  sailor  from  an  East  India  merchantman,  and  the 
sailor  had  bought  it  of  a  pilgrim  in  a  bazaar  at  Jaffa, 
who  had  stolen  it  from  a  nobleman's  wife  in  China:  a 
perfectly  permissible  thing  to  do,  since  the  pilgrim  was 
a  Christian  and  the  nobleman  a  heathen  doomed  to  hell- 
fire.  Yves  de  Cornault  had  paid  a  long  price  for  the  dog, 
for  they  were  beginning  to  be  in  demand  at  the  French 
court,  and  the  sailor  knew  he  had  got  hold  of  a  good 
thing;  but  Anne's  pleasure  was  so  great  that,  to  see  her 
laugh  and  play  with  the  little  animal,  her  husband  would 
doubtless  have  given  twice  the  sum. 

So  far,  all  the  evidence  is  at  one,  and  the  narrative 
plain  sailing;  but  now  the  steering  becomes  difficult.  I 
will  try  to  keep  as  nearly  as  possible  to  Anne's  own  state 
ments;  though  toward  the  end,  poor  thing.  . .  . 

Well,  to  go  back.  The  very  year  after  the  little  brown 
dog  was  brought  to  Kerfol,  Yves  de  Cornault,  one  winter 
night,  was  found  dead  at  the  head  of  a  narrow  flight  of 
[170] 


KERFOL 

stairs  leading  down  from  his  wife's  rooms  to  a  door  open 
ing  on  the  court.  It  was  his  wife  who  found  him  and  gave 
the  alarm,  so  distracted,  poor  wretch,  with  fear  and 
horror — for  his  blood  was  all  over  her — that  at  first  the 
roused  household  could  not  make  out  what  she  was  say 
ing,  and  thought  she  had  suddenly  gone  mad.  But  there, 
sure  enough,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  lay  her  husband, 
stone  dead,  and  head  foremost,  the  blood  from  his  wounds 
dripping  down  to  the  steps  below  him.  He  had  been  dread 
fully  scratched  and  gashed  about  the  face  and  throat, 
as  if  with  curious  pointed  weapons;  and  one  of  his  legs 
had  a  deep  tear  in  it  which  had  cut  an  artery,  and  prob 
ably  caused  his  death.  But  how  did  he  come  there,  and 
who  had  murdered  him? 

His  wife  declared  that  she  had  been  asleep  in  her  bed, 
and  hearing  his  cry  had  rushed  out  to  find  him  lying  on 
the  stairs;  but  this  was  immediately  questioned.  In  the 
first  place,  it  was  proved  that  from  her  room  she  could 
not  have  heard  the  struggle  on  the  stairs,  owing  to  the 
thickness  of  the  walls  and  the  length  of  the  intervening 
passage;  then  it  was  evident  that  she  had  not  been  in 
bed  and  asleep,  since  she  was  dressed  when  she  roused 
the  house,  and  her  bed  had  not  been  slept  in.  Moreover, 
the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  was  ajar,  and  it  was 
noticed  by  the  chaplain  (an  observant  man)  that  the  dress 
she  wore  was  stained  with  blood  about  the  knees,  and 
that  there  were  traces  of  small  blood-stained  hands  low 
[171] 


KERFOL 

down  on  the  staircase  walls,  so  that  it  was  conjectured 
that  she  had  really  been  at  the  postern-door  when  her 
husband  fell  and,  feeling  her  way  up  to  him  hi  the  dark 
ness  on  her  hands  and  knees,  had  been  stained  by  his 
blood  dripping  down  on  her.  Of  course  it  was  argued  on 
the  other  side  that  the  blood-marks  on  her  dress  might 
have  been  caused  by  her  kneeling  down  by  her  husband 
when  she  rushed  out  of  her  room;  but  there  was  the  open 
door  below,  and  the  fact  that  the  finger-marks  in  the 
staircase  all  pointed  upward. 

The  accused  held  to  her  statement  for  the  first  two 
days,  in  spite  of  its  improbability;  but  on  the  third  day 
word  was  brought  to  her  that  Herve  de  Lanrivain,  a  young 
nobleman  of  the  neighbourhood,  had  been  arrested  for 
complicity  in  the  crime.  Two  or  three  witnesses  thereupon 
came  forward  to  say  that  it  was  known  throughout  the 
country  that  Lanrivain  had  formerly  been  on  good  terms 
with  the  lady  of  Cornault;  but  that  he  had  been  absent 
from  Brittany  for  over  a  year,  and  people  had  ceased  to 
associate  their  names.  The  witnesses  who  made  this  state 
ment  were  not  of  a  very  reputable  sort.  One  was  an  old 
herb-gatherer  suspected  of  witchcraft,  another  a  drunken 
clerk  from  a  neighbouring  parish,  the  third  a  half-witted 
shepherd  who  could  be  made  to  say  anything;  and  it  was 
clear  that  the  prosecution  was  not  satisfied  with  its  case, 
and  would  have  liked  to  find  more  definite  proof  of  Lan- 
rivain's  complicity  than  the  statement  of  the  herb- 
[1721 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

gatherer,  who  swore  to  having  seen  him  climbing  the 
wall  of  the  park  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  One  way 
of  patching  out  incomplete  proofs  in  those  days  was  to 
put  some  sort  of  pressure,  moral  or  physical,  on  the  ac 
cused  person.  It  is  not  clear  what  pressure  was  put  on 
Anne  de  Cornault;  but  on  the  third  day,  when  she  was 
brought  in  court,  she  "appeared  weak  and  wandering," 
and  after  being  encouraged  to  collect  herself  and  speak 
the  truth,  on  her  honour  and  the  wounds  of  her  Blessed 
Redeemer,  she  confessed  that  she  had  in  fact  gone  down 
the  stairs  to  speak  with  Herve  de  Lanrivain  (who  denied 
everything),  and  had  been  surprised  there  by  the  sound 
of  her  husband's  fall.  That  was  better;  and  the  prosecu 
tion  rubbed  its  hands  with  satisfaction.  The  satisfaction 
increased  when  various  dependents  living  at  Kerfol  were 
induced  to  say — with  apparent  sincerity — that  during 
the  year  or  two  preceding  his  death  their  master  had  once 
more  grown  uncertain  and  irascible,  and  subject  to  the 
fits  of  brooding  silence  which  his  household  had  learned 
to  dread  before  his  second  marriage.  This  seemed  to  show 
that  things  had  not  been  going  well  at  Kerfol;  though 
no  one  could  be  found  to  say  that  there  had  been  any 
signs  of  open  disagreement  between  husband  and  wife. 

Anne  de  Cornault,  when  questioned  as  to  her  reason 

for  going  down  at  night  to  open  the  door  to  Herve  de 

Lanrivain,  made  an  answer  which  must  have  sent  a  smile 

around  the  court.  She  said  it  was  because  she  was  lonely 

f  1701 


KERFOL 

and  wanted  to  talk  with  the  young  man.  Was  this  the 
only  reason?  she  was  asked;  and  replied:  "Yes,  by  the 
Cross  over  your  Lordships'  heads."  "But  why  at  mid 
night?"  the  court  asked.  "Because  I  could  see  him  in 
no  other  wray."  I  can  see  the  exchange  of  glances  across 
the  ermine  collars  under  the  Crucifix. 

Anne  de  Cornault,  further  questioned,  said  that  her 
married  life  had  been  extremely  lonely:  "desolate"  was 
the  word  she  used.  It  was  true  that  her  husband  seldom 
spoke  harshly  to  her;  but  there  were  days  when  he  did 
not  speak  at  all.  It  was  true  that  he  had  never  struck  or 
threatened  her;  but  he  kept  her  like  a  prisoner  at  Kerfol, 
and  when  he  rode  away  to  Morlaix  or  Quimper  or  Rennes 
he  set  so  close  a  watch  on  her  that  she  could  not  pick  a 
flower  in  the  garden  without  having  a  waiting-woman  at 
her  heels.  "I  am  no  Queen,  to  need  such  honours,"  she 
once  said  to  him;  and  he  had  answered  that  a  man  who 
has  a  treasure  does  not  leave  the  key  in  the  lock  when 
he  goes  out.  "Then  take  me  with  you,"  she  urged;  but 
to  this  he  said  that  towns  were  pernicious  places,  and 
young  wives  better  off  at  their  own  firesides. 

"But  what  did  you  want  to  say  to  Herve  de  Lan- 
rivain?"  the  court  asked;  and  she  answered:  "To  ask 
him  to  take  me  away." 

"Ah — you  confess  that  you  went  down  to  him  with 
adulterous  thoughts  ? " 

"No." 

[  174  ] 


KERFOL 

"Then  why  did  you  want  him  to  take  you  away?" 

"Because  I  was  afraid  for  my  life." 

"Of  whom  were  you  afraid?" 

"Of  my  husband." 

"Why  were  you  afraid  of  your  husband?" 

"Because  he  had  strangled  my  little  dog." 

Another  smile  must  have  passed  around  the  court 
room:  in  days  when  any  nobleman  had  a  right  to  hang 
his  peasants — and  most  of  them  exercised  it — pinching 
a  pet  animal's  wind-pipe  was  nothing  to  make  a  fuss 
about. 

At  this  point  one  of  the  Judges,  who  appears  to  have 
had  a  certain  sympathy  for  the  accused,  suggested  that 
she  should  be  allowed  to  explain  herself  in  her  own  way; 
and  she  thereupon  made  the  following  statement. 

The  first  years  of  her  marriage  had  been  lonely;  but  her 
husband  had  not  been  unkind  to  her.  If  she  had  had  a 
child  she  would  not  have  been  unhappy;  but  the  days 
were  long,  and  it  rained  too  much. 

It  was  true  that  her  husband,  whenever  he  went  away 
and  left  her,  brought  her  a  handsome  present  on  his  re 
turn;  but  this  did  not  make  up  for  the  loneliness.  At  least 
nothing  had,  till  he  brought  her  the  little  brown  dog 
from  the  East:  after  that  she  was  much  less  unhappy. 
Her  husband  seemed  pleased  that  she  was  so  fond  of  the 
dog;  he  gave  her  leave  to  put  her  jewelled  bracelet  around 
its  neck,  and  to  keep  it  always  with  her. 
[175] 


KERFOL 

One  day  she  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  room,  with  the 
dog  at  her  feet,  as  his  habit  was.  Her  feet  were  bare  and 
resting  on  his  back.  Suddenly  she  was  waked  by  her 
husband:  he  stood  beside  her,  smiling  not  unkindly. 

"You  look  like  my  great-grandmother,  Juliane  de 
Cornault,  lying  in  the  chapel  with  her  feet  on  a  little 
dog,"  he  said. 

The  analogy  sent  a  chill  through  her,  but  she  laughed 
and  answered:  "Well,  when  I  am  dead  you  must  put  me 
beside  her,  carved  hi  marble,  with  my  dog  at  my  feet." 

"Oho— we'll  wait  and  see,"  he  said,  laughing  also,  but 
with  his  black  brows  close  together.  "The  dog  is  the 
emblem  of  fidelity." 

"And  do  you  doubt  my  right  to  lie  with  mine  at  my 
feet?" 

"When  I'm  in  doubt  I  find  out,"  he  answered.  "I  am 
an  old  man,"  he  added,  "and  people  say  I  make  you 
lead  a  lonely  life.  But  I  swear  you  shall  have  your  monu 
ment  if  you  earn  it." 

"And  I  swear  to  be  faithful,"  she  returned,  "if  only 
for  the  sake  of  having  my  little  dog  at  my  feet." 

Not  long  afterward  he  went  on  business  to  the  Quimper 
Assizes;  and  while  he  was  away  his  aunt,  the  widow  of 
a  great  nobleman  of  the  duchy,  came  to  spend  a  night 
at  Kerfol  on  her  way  to  the  pardon  of  Ste.  Barbe.  She  was 
a  woman  of  piety  and  consequence,  and  much  respected 
by  Yves  de  Cornault,  and  when  she  proposed  to  Anne 
[1701 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

to  go  with  her  to  Ste.  Barbe  no  one  could  object,  and  even 
the  chaplain  declared  himself  in  favour  of  the  pilgrimage. 
So  Anne  set  out  for  Ste.  Barbe,  and  there  for  the  first 
tim~  she  talked  with  Herve  de  Lanrivain.  He  had  come 
once  or  twice  to  Kerfol  with  his  father,  but  she  had  never 
before  exchanged  a  dozen  words  with  him.  They  did  not 
talk  for  more  than  five  minutes  now:  it  was  under  the 
chestnuts,  as  the  procession  was  coming  out  of  the  chapel. 
He  said:  "I  pity  you,"  and  she  was  surprised,  for  she 
had  not  supposed  that  any  one  thought  her  an  object 
of  pity.  He  added:  "Call  for  me  when  you  need  me," 
and  she  smiled  a  little,  but  was  glad  afterward,  and 
thought  often  of  the  meeting. 

She  confessed  to  having  seen  him  three  times  after 
ward:  not  more.  How  or  where  she  would  not  say — one 
had  the  impression  that  she  feared  to  implicate  some  one. 
Their  meetings  had  been  rare  and  brief;  and  at  the  last 
he  had  told  her  that  he  was  starting  the  next  day  for  a 
foreign  country,  on  a  mission  which  was  not  without 
peril  and  might  keep  him  for  many  months  absent.  He 
asked  her  for  a  remembrance,  and  she  had  none  to  give 
him  but  the  collar  about  the  little  dog's  neck.  She  was 
sorry  afterward  that  she  had  given  it,  but  he  was  so  un 
happy  at  going  that  she  had  not  had  the  courage  to  refuse. 

Her  husband  was  away  at  the  time.  When  he  returned 
a  few  days  later  he  picked  up  the  animal  to  pet  it,  and 
noticed  that  its  collar  was  missing.  His  wife  told  him  that 
[177] 


KERFOL 

the  dog  had  lost  it  in  the  undergrowth  of  .the  park,  and 
that  she  and  her  maids  had  hunted  a  whole  day  for  it. 
It  was  true,  she  explained  to  the  court,  that  she  had 
made  the  maids  search  for  the  necklet — they  all  be1'  *ved 
the  dog  had  lost  it  in  the  park.  .  .  . 

Her  husband  made  no  comment,  and  that  evening  at 
supper  he  was  in  his  usual  mood,  between  good  and  bad: 
you  could  never  tell  which.  He  talked  a  good  deal,  describ 
ing  what  he  had  seen  and  done  at  Rennes;  but  now  and 
then  he  stopped  and  looked  hard  at  her,  and  when  she 
went  to  bed  she  found  her  little  dog  strangled  on  her 
pillow.  The  little  thing  was  dead,  but  still  warm;  she 
stooped  to  lift  it,  and  her  distress  turned  to  horror  when 
she  discovered  that  it  had  been  strangled  by  twisting 
twice  round  its  throat  the  necklet  she  had  given  to  Lan- 
rivain. 

The  next  morning  at  dawn  she  buried  the  dog  in  the 
garden,  and  hid  the  necklet  in  her  breast.  She  said  nothing 
to  her  husband,  then  or  later,  and  he  said  nothing  to  her; 
but  that  day  he  had  a  peasant  hanged  for  stealing  a 
faggot  in  the  park,  and  the  next  day  he  nearly  beat  to 
death  a  young  horse  he  was  breaking. 

Winter  set  in,  and  the  short  days  passed,  and  the  long 
nights,  one  by  one;  and  she  heard  nothing  of  Herve  de 
Lanrivain.  It  might  be  that  her  husband  had  killed  him; 
or  merely  that  he  had  been  robbed  of  the  necklet.  Day 
after  day  by  the  hearth  among  the  spinning  maids,  night 
[178] 


KERFOL 

after  night  alone  on  her  bed,  she  wondered  and  trembled. 
Sometimes  at  table  her  husband  looked  across  at  her  and 
smiled;  and  then  she  felt  sure  that  Lanrivain  was  dead. 
She  dared  not  try  to  get  news  of  him,  for  she  was  sure 
her  husband  would  find  out  if  she  did:  she  had  an  idea 
that  he  could  find  out  anything.  Even  when  a  witch- 
woman  who  was  a  noted  seer,  and  could  show  you  the 
whole  world  in  her  crystal,  came  to  the  castle  for  a  night's 
shelter,  and  the  maids  flocked  to  her,  Anne  held  back. 

The  whiter  was  long  and  black  and  rainy.  One  day, 
in  Yves  de  Cornault's  absence,  some  gypsies  came  to 
Kerfol  with  a  troop  of  performing  dogs.  Anne  bought  the 
smallest  and  cleverest,  a  white  dog  with  a  feathery  coat 
and  one  blue  and  one  brown  eye.  It  seemed  to  have  been 
ill-treated  by  the  gypsies,  and  clung  to  her  plaintively 
when  she  took  it  from  them.  That  evening  her  husband 
came  back,  and  when  she  went  to  bed  she  found  the  dog 
strangled  on  her  pillow. 

After  that  she  said  to  herself  that  she  would  never 
have  another  dog;  but  one  bitter  cold  evening  a  poor 
lean  greyhound  was  found  whining  at  the  castle-gate, 
and  she  took  him  in  and  forbade  the  maids  to  speak  of 
•  him-  to  her  husband.  She  hid  him  in  a  room  that  no  one 
went  to,  smuggled  food  to  him  from  her  own  plate,  made 
him- a  warm  bed  to  lie  on  and  petted  him  like  a  child. 

Yves  de  Cornault  came  home,  and  the  next  day  she 
found  the  greyhound  strangled  on  her  pillow.  She  wept 
[179] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

in  secret,  but  said  nothing,  and  resolved  that  even  if  she 
met  a  dog  dying  of  hunger  she  would  never  bring  him 
into  the  castle;  but  one  day  she  found  a  young  sheep 
dog,  a  brindled  puppy  with  good  blue  eyes,  lying  with  a 
broken  leg  in  the  snow  of  the  park.  Yves  de  Cornault 
was  at  Rennes,  and  she  brought  the  dog  in,  warmed  and 
fed  it,  tied  up  its  leg  and  hid  it  in  the  castle  till  her  hus 
band's  return.  The  day  before,  she  gave  it  to  a  peasant 
woman  who  lived  a  long  way  off,  and  paid  her  handsomely 
to  care  for  it  and  say  nothing;  but  that  night  she  heard 
a  whining  and  scratching  at  her  door,  and  when  she 
opened  it  the  lame  puppy,  drenched  and  shivering,  jumped 
up  on  her  with  little  sobbing  barks.  She  hid  him  in  her 
bed,  and  the  next  morning  was  about  to  have  him  taken 
back  to  the  peasant  woman  when  she  heard  her  husband 
ride  into  the  court.  She  shut  the  dog  in  a  chest,  and  went 
down  to  receive  him.  An  hour  or  two  later,  when  she 
returned  to  her  room,  the  puppy  lay  strangled  on  her 
pillow.  . . . 

After  that  she  dared  not  make  a  pet  of  any  other  dog; 
and  her  loneliness  became  almost  unendurable.  Sometimes, 
when  she  crossed  the  court  of  the  castle,  and  thought  no 
one  was  looking,  she  stopped  to  pat  the  old  pointer  at 
the  gate.  But  one  day  as  she  was  caressing  him  her  hus 
band  came  out  of  the  chapel;  and  the  next  day  the  old 
dog  was  gone.  .  .  . 

This  curious  narrative  was  not  told  in  one  sitting  of 
the  court,  or  received  without  impatience  and  incredulous 
[1801 


KERFOL 

comment.  It  was  plain  that  the  Judges  were  surprised  by 
its  puerility,  and  that  it  did  not  help  the  accused  in  the 
eyes  of  the  public.  It  was  an  odd  tale,  certainly;  but  what 
did  it  prove?  That  Yves  de  Cornault  disliked  dogs,  and 
that  his  wife,  to  gratify  her  own  fancy,  persistently  ignored 
this  dislike.  As  for  pleading  this  trivial  disagreement  as 
an  excuse  for  her  relations — whatever  their  nature — with 
her  supposed  accomplice,  the  argument  was  so  absurd 
that  her  own  lawyer  manifestly  regretted  having  let  her 
make  use  of  it,  and  tried  several  times  to  cut  short  her 
story.  But  she  went  on  to  the  end,  with  a  kind  of  hypno 
tized  insistence,  as  though  the  scenes  she  evoked  were  so 
real  to  her  that  she  had  forgotten  where  she  was  and 
imagined  herself  to  be  re-living  them. 

At  length  the  Judge  who  had  previously  shown  a  cer 
tain  kindness  to  her  said  (leaning  forward  a  little,  one 
may  suppose,  from  his  row  of  dozing  colleagues):  "Then 
you  would  have  us  believe  that  you  murdered  your  hus 
band  because  he  would  not  let  you  keep  a  pet  dog?" 

"I  did  not  murder  my  husband." 

"Who  did,  then?  Herve  de  Lanrivain?" 

"No." 

"Who  then?  Can  you  tell  us?" 

"Yes,  I  can  tell  you.  The  dogs — "  At  that  point  she 
was  carried  out  of  the  court  in  a  swoon. 

. 

It  was  evident  that  her  lawyer  tried  to  get  her  to 
abandon  this  line  of  defense.  Possibly  her  explanation, 

[1811 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

whatever  it  was,  had  seemed  convincing  when  she  poured 
it  out  to  him  in  the  heat  of  their  first  private  colloquy; 
but  now  that  it  was  exposed  to  the  cold  daylight  of 
judicial  scrutiny,  and  the  banter  of  the  town,  he  was 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  it,  and  would  have  sacrificed  her 
without  a  scruple  to  save  his  professional  reputation. 
But  the  obstinate  Judge — who  perhaps,  after  all,  was 
more  inquisitive  than  kindly — evidently  wanted  to  hear 
the  story  out,  and  she  was  ordered,  the  next  day,  to  con 
tinue  her  deposition. 

She  said  that  after  the  disappearance  of  the  old  watch 
dog  nothing  particular  happened  for  a  month  or  two. 
Her  husband  was  much  as  usual:  she  did  not  remember 
any  special  incident.  But  one  evening  a  pedlar  woman 
came  to  the  castle  and  was  selling  trinkets  to  the  maids. 
She  had  no  heart  for  trinkets,  but  she  stood  looking  on 
while  the  women  made  their  choice.  And  then,  she  did 
not  know  how,  but  the  pedlar  coaxed  her  into  buying  for 
herself  a  pear-shaped  pomander  with  a  strong  scent  in 
it — she  had  once  seen  something  of  the  kind  on  a  gypsy 
woman.  She  had  no  desire  for  the  pomander,  and  did 
not  know  why  she  had  bought  it.  The  pedlar  said  that 
whoever  wore  it  had  the  power  to  read  the  future;  but  she 
did  not  really  believe  that,  or  care  much  either.  How 
ever,  she  bought  the  thing  and  took  it  up  to  her  room, 
where  she  sat  turning  it  about  in  her  hand.  Then  the 
strange  scent  attracted  her  and  she  began  to  wonder 
[182] 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

what  kind  of  spice  was  in  the  box.  She  opened  it  and  found 
a  grey  bean  rolled  in  a  strip  of  paper;  and  on  the  paper 
she  saw  a  sign  she  knew,  and  a  message  from  Herve  de 
Lanrivaiii,  saying  that  he  was  at  home  again  and  would 
be  at  the  door  in  the  court  that  night  after  the  moon 
had  set. .  . . 

She  burned  the  paper  and  sat  down  to  think.  It  was 
nightfall,  and  her  husband  was  at  home.  .  .  .  She  had  no 
way  of  warning  Lanrivain,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  to  wait.  .  .  . 

At  this  point  I  fancy  the  drowsy  court-room  beginning 
to  wake  up.  Even  to  the  oldest  hand  on  the  bench  there 
must  have  been  a  certain  relish  in  picturing  the  feelings 
of  a  woman  on  receiving  such  a  message  at  nightfall  from 
a  man  living  twenty  miles  away,  to  whom  she  had  no 
means  of  sending  a  warning.  .  .  . 

She  was  not  a  clever  woman,  I  imagine;  and  as  the 
first  result  of  her  cogitation  she  appears  to  have  made 
the  mistake  of  being,  that  evening,  too  kind  to  her  hus 
band.  She  could  not  ply  him  with  wine,  according  to  the 
traditional  expedient,  for  though  he  drank  heavily  at 
times  he  had  a  strong  head;  and  when  he  drank  beyond 
its  strength  it  was  because  he  chose  to,  and  not  because 
a  woman  coaxed  him.  Not  his  wife,  at  any  rate — she  was 
an  old  story  by  now.  As  I  read  the  case,  I  fancy  there 
was  no  feeling  for  her  left  in  him  but  the  hatred  occa 
sioned  by  his  supposed  dishonour. 
I"  1831 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

At  auy  rate,  she  tried  to  call  up  her  old  graces;  but 
early  in  the  evening  he  complained  of  pains  and  fever, 
and  left  the  hall  to  go  up  to  the  closet  where  he  some 
times  slept.  His  servant  carried  him  a  cup  of  hot  wine, 
and  brought  back  word  that  he  was  sleeping  and  not  to 
be  disturbed;  and  an  hour  later,  when  Anne  lifted  the 
tapestry  and  listened  at  his  door,  she  heard  his  loud  regu 
lar  breathing.  She  thought  it  might  be  a  feint,  and  stayed 
a  long  time  barefooted  in  the  passage,  her  ear  to  the 
crack;  but  the  breathing  went  on  too  steadily  and  natu 
rally  to  be  other  than  that  of  a  man  in  a  sound  sleep. 
She  crept  back  to  her  room  reassured,  and  stood  in  the 
window  watching  the  moon  set  through  the  trees  of  the 
park.  The  sky  was  misty  and  starless,  and  after  the  moon 
went  down  the  night  was  black  as  pitch.  She  knew  the 
time  had  come,  and  stole  along  the  passage,  past  her  hus 
band's  door — where  she  stopped  again  to  listen  to  his 
breathing — to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  There  she  paused  a 
moment,  and  assured  herself  that  no  one  was  following 
her;  then  she  began  to  go  down  the  stairs  in  the  darkness. 
They  were  so  steep  and  winding  that  she  had  to  go  very 
slowly,  for  fear  of  stumbling.  Her  one  thought  was  tov 
get  the  door  unbolted,  tell  Lanrivain  to  make  his  escape, 
and  hasten  back  to  her  room.  She  had  tried  the  bolt 
earlier  in  the  evening,  and  managed  to  put  a  little  grease 
on  it;  but  nevertheless,  when  she  drew  it,  it  gave  a  squeak 
.  .  .  not  loud,  but  it  made  her  heart  stop;  and  the  next 
minute,  overhead,  she  heard  a  noise.  .  .  . 
[1841 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

"What  noise?"  the  prosecution  interposed. 

"My  husband's  voice  calling  out  my  name  and  cursing 
me." 

"What  did  you  hear  after  that?" 

"A  terrible  scream  and  a  fall." 

"Where  was  Herve  de  Lanrivain  at  this  time?" 

"He  was  standing  outside  in  the  court.  I  just  made 
him  out  in  the  darkness.  I  told  him  for  God's  sake  to  go, 
and  then  I  pushed  the  door  shut." 

"What  did  you  do  next?" 

"I  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  listened." 

"What  did  you  hear?" 

"I  heard  dogs  snarling  and  panting."  (Visible  discour 
agement  of  the  bench,  boredom  of  the  public,  and  exas 
peration  of  the  lawyer  for  the  defense.  Dogs  again — !  But 
the  inquisitive  Judge  insisted.) 

"What  dogs?" 

She  bent  her  head  and  spoke  so  low  that  she  had  to 
be  told  to  repeat  her  answer:  "I  don't  know." 

"How  do  you  mean — you  don't  know?" 

"I  don't  know  what  dogs.  .  .  ." 

The  Judge  again  intervened:  "Try  to  tell  us  exactly 
what  happened.  How  long  did  you  remain  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs?" 

"Only  a  few  minutes." 

"And  what  was  going  on  meanwhile  overhead?" 

"The  dogs  kept  on  snarling  and  panting.  Once  or  twice 
he  cried  out.  I  think  he  moaned  once.  Then  he  was  quiet." 
[1851 


K  E  R  F  O  L 

"Then  what  happened?" 

"Then  I  heard  a  sound  like  the  noise  of  a  pack  when 
the  wolf  is  thrown  to  them — gulping  and  lapping." 

(There  was  a  groan  of  disgust  and  repulsion  through 
the  court,  and  another  attempted  intervention  by  the 
distracted  lawyer.  But  the  inquisitive  Judge  was  still  in 
quisitive.) 

"And  all  the  while  you  did  not  go  up?" 

"Yes — I  went  up  then — to  drive  them  off." 

"The  dogs?" 

"Yes." 

"Well—?" 

"When  I  got  there  it  was  quite  dark.  I  found  my  hus 
band's  flint  and  steel  and  struck  a  spark.  I  saw  him  lying 
there.  He  was  dead." 

"And  the  dogs?" 

"The  dogs  were  gone." 

"Gone— whereto?" 

"I  don't  know.  There  was  no  way  out — and  there  were 
no  dogs  at  Kerfol." 

She  straightened  herself  to  her  full  height,  threw  her 
arms  above  her  head,  and  fell  down  on  the  stone  floor 
with  a  long  scream.  There  was  a  moment  of  confusion 
in  the  court-room.  Some  one  on  the  bench  was  heard  to 
say:  "This  is  clearly  a  case  for  the  ecclesiastical  authori 
ties" — and  the  prisoner's  lawyer  doubtless  jumped  at  the 
suggestion. 

[186] 


KERFOL 

After  this,  the  trial  loses  itself  in  a  maze  of  cross- 
questioning  and  squabbling.  Every  witness  who  was  called 
corroborated  Anne  de  Cornault's  statement  that  there 
were  no  dogs  at  Kerfol:  had  been  none  for  several  months. 
The'  master  of  the  house  had  taken  a  dislike  to  dogs, 
there  was  no  denying  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  at  the 
inquest,  there  had  been  long  and  bitter  discussions  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  dead  man's  wounds.  One  of  the  surgeons 
called  in  had  spoken  of  marks  that  looked  like  bites.  The 
suggestion  of  witchcraft  was  revived,  and  the  opposing 
lawyers  hurled  tomes  of  necromancy  at  each  other. 

At  last  Anne  de  Cornault  was  brought  back  into  court 
— at  the  instance  of  the  same  Judge — and  asked  if  she 
knew  where  the  dogs  she  spoke  of  could  have  come  from. 
On  the  body  of  her  Redeemer  she  swore  that  she  did  not. 
Then  the  Judge  put  his  final  question:  "If  the  dogs  you 
think  you  heard  had  been  known  to  you,  do  you  think 
you  would  have  recognized  them  by  their  barking?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  recognize  them?" 

"Yes." 

"What  dogs  do  you  take  them  to  have  been?" 

"My  dead  dogs,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  .  .  .  She  was 
taken  out  of  court,  not  to  reappear  there  again.  There 
was  some  kind  of  ecclesiastical  investigation,  and  the  end 
of  the  business  was  that  the  Judges  disagreed  with  each 
other,  and  with  the  ecclesiastical  committee,  and  that 
[187] 


KERFOL 

Anne  de  Cornault  was  finally  handed  over  to  the  keeping 
of  her  husband's  family,  who  shut  her  up  in  the  keep  of 
Kerfol,  where  she  is  said  to  have  died  many  years  later, 
a  harmless  mad-woman. 

So  ends  her  story.  As  for  that  of  Herve  de  Lanrivain, 
I  had  only  to  apply  to  his  collateral  descendant  for  its 
subsequent  details.  The  evidence  against  the  young  man 
being  insufficient,  and  his  family  influence  in  the  duchy 
considerable,  he  was  set  free,  and  left  soon  afterward  for 
Paris.  He  was  probably  in  no  mood  for  a  worldly  life,  and 
he  appears  to  have  come  almost  immediately  under  the 
influence  of  the  famous  M.  Arnauld  d'Andilly  and  the 
gentlemen  of  Port  Royal.  A  year  or  two  later  he  was  re 
ceived  into  their  Order,  and  without  achieving  any  par 
ticular  distinction  he  followed  its  good  and  evil  fortunes 
till  his  death  some  twenty  years  later.  Lanrivain  showed 
me  a  portrait  of  him  by  a  pupil  of  Philippe  de  Champaigne: 
sad  eyes,  an  impulsive  mouth  and  a  narrow  brow.  Poor 
Herve  de  Lanrivain :  it  was  a  grey  ending.  Yet  as  I  looked 
at  his  stiff  and  sallow  effigy,  in  the  dark  dress  of  the  Jan- 
senists,  I  almost  found  myself  envying  his  fate.  After  all, 
in  the  course  of  his  life  two  great  things  had  happened  to 
him :  he  had  loved  romantically,  and  he  must  have  talked 
with  Pascal. . 


[188] 


THE    LONG    RUN 


THE    LONG    RUN 

The  shade  of  those  our  days  that  had  no  tongue. 
I 

IT  was  last  winter,  after  a  twelve  years'  absence  from 
New  York,  that  I  saw  again,  at  one  of  the  Jim  Cum- 
nors'  dinners,  my  old  friend  Halston  Merrick. 

The  Cumnors'  house  is  one  of  the  few  where,  even 
after  such  a  lapse  of  time,  one  can  be  sure  of  finding  fa 
miliar  faces  and  picking  up  old  threads;  where  for  a 
moment  one  -can  abandon  one's  self  to  the  illusion  that 
New  York  humanity  is  a  shade  less  unstable  than  its 
bricks  and  mortar.  And  that  evening  in  particular  I 
remember  feeling  that  there  could  be  no  pleasanter  way 
of  re-entering  the  confused  and  careless  world  to  which 
I  was  returning  than  through  the  quiet  softly-lit  dining- 
room  in  which  Mrs.  Cumnor,  with  a  characteristic  sense 
of  my  needing  to  be  broken  in  gradually,  had  contrived 
to  assemble  so  many  friendly  faces. 

I  was  glad  to  see  them  all,  including  the  three  or  four 
I  did  not  know,  or  failed  to  recognize,  but  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  passing  as  in  the  tradition  and  of  the  group; 
but  I  was  most  of  all  glad— as  I  rather  wonderingly 
found — to  set  eyes  again  on  Halstojj  Merrick. 
[1911 


THE    LONG    RUN 

He  and  I  had  been  at  Harvard  together,  for  one  thing, 
and  had  shared  there  curiosities  and  ardours  a  little  out 
side  the  current  tendencies:  had,  on  the  whole,  been 
more  critical  than  our  comrades,  and  less  amenable  to  the 
accepted.  Then,  for  the  next  following  years,  Merrick 
had  been  a  vivid  and  promising  figure  in  young  American 
life.  Handsome,  careless,  and  free,  he  had  wandered  and 
tasted  and  compared.  After  leaving  Harvard  he  had  spent 
two  years  at  Oxford;  then  he  had  accepted  a  private 
secretaryship  to  our  Ambassador  in  England,  and  had 
come  back  from  this  adventure  with  a  fresh  curiosity 
about  public  affairs  at  home,  and  the  conviction  that  men 
of  his  kind  should  play  a  larger  part  in  them.  This  led, 
first,  to  his  running  for  a  State  Senatorship  which  he 
failed  to  get,  and  ultimately  to  a  few  months  of  intelli 
gent  activity  in  a  municipal  office.  Soon  after  being  de 
prived  of  this  post  by  a  change  of  party  he  had  published 
a  small  volume  of  delicate  verse,  and,  a  year  later,  an 
odd  uneven  brilliant  book  on  Municipal  Government. 
After  that  one  hardly  knew  where  to  look  for  his  next 
appearance;  but  chance  rather  disappointingly  solved 
the  problem  by  killing  off  his  father  and  placing  Halston 
at  the  head  of  the  Merrick  Iron  Foundry  at  Yonkers. 

His  friends  had  gathered  that,  whenever  this  regret 
table  contingency  should  occur,  he  meant  to  dispose  of 
\   the  business  and  continue  his  life  of  free  experiment. 
As  often  happens  in  just  such  cases,  however,  it  was  not 


THE    LONG    RUN 

the  moment  for  a  sale,  and  Merrick  had  to  take  over  the 
management  of  the  foundry.  Some  two  years  later  he 
had  a  chance  to  free  himself;  but  when  it  came  he  did  not 
choose  to  take  it.  This  tame  sequel  to  an  inspiriting  start 
was  disappointing  to  some  of  us,  and  I  was  among  those 
disposed  to  regret  Merrick's  drop  to  the  level  of  the 
prosperous.  Then  I  went  away  to  a  big  engineering  job 
in  China,  and  from  there  to  Africa,  and  spent  the  next 
twelve  years  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  New  York 
doings. 

During  that  long  interval  I  heard  of  no  new  phase  in 
Merrick's  evolution,  but  this  did  not  surprise  me,  as  I  had 
never  expected  from  him  actions  resonant  enough  to  cross 
the  globe.  All  I  knew — and  this  did  surprise  me — was  that 
he  had  not  married,  and  that  he  was  still  in  the  iron 
business.  All  through  those  years,  however,  I  never  ceased 
to  wish,  in  certain  situations  and  at  certain  turns  of 
thought,  that  Merrick  were  in  reach,  that  I  could  tell 
this  or  that  to  Merrick.  I  had  never,  in  the  interval, 
found  any  one  with  just  his  quickness  of  perception  and  \ 
just  his  sureness  of  response. 

After  dinner,  therefore,  we  irresistibly  drew  togethei. 
In  Mrs.  Cumnor's  big  easy  drawing-room  cigars  were  al 
lowed,  and  there  was  no  break  in  the  communion  of  the 
sexes;  and,  this  being  the  case,  I  ought  to  have  sought  a 
seat  beside  one  of  the  ladies  among  whom  we  were  al 
lowed  to  remain.  But,  as  had  generally  happened  of 
[193] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

old  when  Merrick  was  in  sight,  I  found  myself  steering 
straight  for  him  past  all  minor  ports  of  call. 

There  had  been  no  time,  before  dinner,  for  more  than 
the  barest  expression  of  satisfaction  at  meeting,  and  our 
seats  had  been  at  opposite  ends  of  the  longish  table,  so 
that  we  got  our  first  real  look  at  each  other  in  the  se 
cluded  corner  to  which  Mrs.  Cumnor's  vigilance  now 
directed  us. 

Merrick  was  still  handsome  in  his  stooping  tawny  way : 
handsomer  perhaps,  with  thinnish  hair  and  more  lines  in 
his  face,  than  in  the  young  excess  of  his  good  looks.  He 
was  very  glad  to  see  me  and  conveyed  his  gladness  by 
the  same  charming  smile;  but  as  soon  as  we  began  to 
talk  I  felt  a  change.  It  was  not  merely  the  change  that 
years  and  experience  and  altered  values  bring.  There  was 
something  more  fundamental  the  matter  with  Merrick, 

|  something  dreadful,  unforeseen,  unaccountable:  Merrick 

j  had  grown  conventional  and  dull. 

In  the  glow  of  his  frank  pleasure  in  seeing  me  I  was 
ashamed  to  analyze  the  nature  of  the  change;  but  pres 
ently  our  talk  began  to  flag — fancy  a  talk  with  Merrick 
flagging! — and  self-deception  became  impossible  as  I 
watched  myself  handing  out  platitudes  with  the  gesture 
of  the  salesman  offering  something  to  a  purchaser  "equally 
good."  The  worst  of  it  was  that  Merrick — Merrick,  who 
had  once  felt  everything! — didn't  seem  to  feel  the  lack 
of  spontaneity  in  my  remarks,  but  hung  on  them  with  a 
[194] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

harrowing  faith  in  the  resuscitating  power  of  our  past. 
It  was  as  if  he  hugged  the  empty  vessel  of  our  friendship 
without  perceiving  that  the  last  drop  of  its  essence  was  dry. 

But  after  all,  I  am  exaggerating.  Through  my  surprise 
and  disappointment  I  felt  a  certain  sense  of  well-being 
in  the  mere  physical  presence  of  my  old  friend.  I  liked 
looking  at  the  way  his  dark  hair  waved  away  from  the 
forehead,  at  the  tautness  of  his  dry  brown  cheek,  the 
thoughtful  backward  tilt  of  his  head,  the  way  his  brown 
eyes  mused  upon  the  scene  through  lowered  lids.  All  the 
past  was  in  his  way  of  looking  and  sitting,  and  I  wanted 
to  stay  near  him,  and  felt  that  he  wanted  me  to  stay; 
but  the  devil  of  it  was  that  neither  of  us  knew  what  to 
talk  about. 

It  was  this  difficulty  which  caused  me,  after  a  while, 
since  I  could  not  follow  Merrick's  talk,  to  follow  his  eyes 
in  their  roaming  circuit  of  the  room. 

At  the  moment  when  our  glances  joined,  his  had  paused 
on  a  lady  seated  at  some  distance  from  our  corner.  Im 
mersed,  at  first,  in  the  satisfaction  of  finding  myself 
again  with  Merrick,  I  had  been  only  half  aware  of  this 
lady,  as  of  one  of  the  few  persons  present  whom  I  did  not 
know,  or  had  failed  to  remember.  There  was  nothing  in 
her  appearance  to  challenge  my  attention  or  to  excite 
my  curiosity,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  looked 
at  her  again  if  I  had  not  noticed  that  my  friend  was 
doing  so. 

[195] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

She  was  a  woman  of  about  forty-seven,  with  fair  faded 
hair  and  a  young  figure.  Her  gray  dress  was  handsome 
but  ineffective,  and  her  pale  and  rather  serious  face  wore 
a  small  unvarying  smile  which  might  have  been  pinned  on 
with  her  ornaments.  She  was  one  of  the  women  in  whom 
increasing  years  show  rather  what  they  have  taken  than 
what  they  have  bestowed,  and  only  on  looking  closely 
did  one  see  that  what  they  had  taken  must  have  been 
good  of  its  kind. 

Phil  Cumnor  and  another  man  were  talking  to  her, 
and  the  very  intensity  of  the  attention  she  bestowed  on 
v  them  betrayed  the  straining  of  rebellious  thoughts.  She 
never  let  her  eyes  stray  or  her  smile  drop;  and  at  the 
proper  moment  I  saw  she  was  ready  with  the  proper 
sentiment. 

The  party,  like  most  of  those  that  Mrs.  Cumnor  gath 
ered  about  her,  was  not  composed  of  exceptional  beings. 
The  people  of  the  old  vanished  New  York  set  were  not 
exceptional:  they  were  mostly  cut  on  the  same  conveni 
ent  and  unobtrusive  pattern;  but  they  were  often  ex 
ceedingly  "nice."  And  this  obsolete  quality  marked  every 
look  and  gesture  of  the  lady  I  was  scrutinizing. 

While  these  reflections  were  passing  through  my  mind 
I  was  aware  that  Merrick's  eyes  rested  still  on  her.  I 
took  a  cross-section  of  his  look  and  found  in  it  neither 
surprise  nor  absorption,  but  only  a  certain  sober  pleasure 
just  about  at  the  emotional  level  of  the  rest  of  the  room. 
[19G] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

If  he  continued  to  look  at  her,  his  expression  seemed  to 
say,  it  was  only  because,  all  things  considered,  there  were 
fewer  reasons  for  looking  at  anybody  else. 

This  made  me  wonder  what  were  the  reasons  for  look 
ing  at  her;  and  as  a  first  step  toward  enlightenment  I 
said: — "I'm  sure  I've  seen  the  lady  over  there  in  gray — " 

Merrick  detached  his  eyes  and  turned  them  on  me 
with  a  wondering  look. 

"Seen  her?  You  know  her."  He  waited.  "Don't  you 
know  her?  It's  Mrs.  Reardon." 

I  wondered  that  he  should  wonder,  for  I  could  not 
remember,  in  the  Cumnor  group  or  elsewhere,  having 
known  any  one  of  the  name  he  mentioned. 

"But  perhaps,"  he  continued,  "you  hadn't  heard  of 
her  marriage?  You  knew  her  as  Mrs.  Trant." 

I  gave  him  back  his  stare.  "Not  Mrs.  Philip  Trant?" 

"Yes;  Mrs.  Philip  Trant." 

"Not  Paulina?" 

"Yes — Paulina,"  he  said,  with  a  just  perceptible  delay 
before  the  name. 

In  my  surprise  I  continued  to  stare  at  him.  He  averted 
his  eyes  from  mine  after  a  moment,  and  I  saw  that  they 
had  strayed  back  to  her.  "You  find  her  so  changed?" 
he  asked. 

Something  in  his  voice  acted  as  a  warning  signal,  and 
I  tried  to  reduce  my  astonishment  to  less  unbecoming 
proportions.  "I  don't  find  that  she  looks  much  older." 
[197] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"No.  Only  different?"  he  suggested,  as  if  there  were 
nothing  new  to  him  in  my  perplexity. 

"Yes— awfully  different." 

"I  suppose  we're  all  awfully  different.  To  you,  I  mean 
— coming  from  so  far?" 

"I  recognized  all  the  rest  of  you,"  I  said,  hesitating. 
"And  she  used  to  be  the  one  who  stood  out  most." 

There  was  a  flash,  a  wave,  a  stir  of  something  deep 
down  in  his  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "That's  the  differ 
ence." 

"I  see  it  is.  She — she  looks  worn  down.  Soft  but  blurred, 
like  the  figures  in  that  tapestry  behind  her." 

He  glanced  at  her  again,  as  if  to  test  the  exactness  of 
my  analogy. 

"Life  wears  everybody  down,"  he  said. 

"Yes — except  those  it  makes  more  distinct.  They're 
the  rare  ones,  of  course;  but  she  was  rare." 

He  stood  up  suddenly,  looking  old  and  tired.  "I  believe 
I'll  be  off.  I  wish  you'd  come  down  to  my  place  for  Sunday. 
.  .  .  No,  don't  shake  hands — I  want  to  slide  away  un 
awares." 

He  had  backed  away  to  the  threshold  and  was  turning 
the  noiseless  door-knob.  Even  Mrs.  Cumnor's  door 
knobs  had  tact  and  didn't  tell. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  I  promised  warmly.  In  the  last 
ten  minutes  he  had  begun  to  interest  me  again. 

"All  right.  Good-bye."  Half  through  the  door  he  paused 
[  198  ] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

to  add: — "She  remembers  you.  You  ought  to  speak  to 
her." 

"I'm  going  lo.  But  tell,  me  a  little  more."  I  thought  I 
saw  a  shade  of  eonstraint  on  his  face,  and  did  not  add, 
as  I  had  meant  to:  "Tell  me — because  she  interests  me 
— what  wore  her  down?"  Instead,  I  asked:  "How  soon 
after  Trant's  death  did  she  remarry?" 

He  seemed  to  make  an  effort  of  memory.  "It  was  seven 
years  ago,  I  think." 

"And  is  Reardon  here  to-night?" 

"Yes;  over  there,  talking  to  Mrs.  Cumnor." 

I  looked  across  the  broken  groupings  and  saw  a  large 
glossy  man  with  straw-coloured  hair  and  a  red  face, 
whose  shirt  and  shoes  and  complexion  seemed  all  to  have 
received  a  coat  of  the  same  expensive  varnish. 

As  I  looked  there  was  a  drop  in  the  talk  about  us, 
and  I  heard  Mr.  Reardon  pronounce  in  a  big  booming 
voice:  "What  I  say  is:  what's  the  good  of  disturbing 
things  ?  Thank  the  Lord,  I'm  content  with  what  I've  got ! " 

"Is  that  her  husband?  What's  he  like?" 

"Oh,  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,"  said  Merrick,  going. 


[199 


THE    LONG    RUN 


II 


]\TERRICK  had  a  little  place  at  Riverdale,  where  he 
•*••*•  went  occasionally  to  be  near  the  Iron  Works, 
and  where  he  hid  his  week-ends  when  the  world  was  too 
much  with  him. 

Here,  on  the  following  Saturday  afternoon  I  found  him 
awaiting  me  in  a  pleasant  setting  of  books  and  prints  and 
faded  parental  furniture. 

We  dined  late,  and  smoked  and  talked  afterward  in  his 
book-walled  study  till  the  terrier  on  the  hearth-rug  stood 
up  and  yawned  for  bed.  When  we  took  the  hint  and 
moved  toward  the  staircase  I  felt,  not  that  I  had  found 
the  old  Merrick  again,  but  that  I  was  on  his  track,  had 
come  across  traces  of  his  passage  here  and  there  in  the 
thick  jungle  that  had  grown  up  between  us.  But  I  had  a 
feeling  that  when  I  finally  came  on  the  man  himself  he 
might  be  dead.  . .  . 

As  we  started  upstairs  he  turned  back  with  one  of  his 
abrupt  shy  movements,  and  walked  into  the  study. 

"Wait  a  bit!"  he  called  to  me. 

I  waited,  and  he  came  out  in  a  moment  carrying  a 
limp  folio. 

"It's  typewritten.   Will  you  take  a  look  at  it?  I've 
been  trying  to  get  to  work  again,"  he  explained,  thrusting 
the  manuscript  into  my  hand. 
[200] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"What?  Poetry,  I  hope?"  I  exclaimed. 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  gleam  of  derision.  "No — just 
general  considerations.  The  fruit  of  fifty  years  of  inexperi-  ' 
ence." 

He  showed  me  to  my  room  and  said  good-night. 

i 

The  following  afternoon  we  took  a  long  walk  inland, 
across  the  hills,  and  I  said  to  Merrick  what  I  could  of 
his  book.  Unluckily  there  wasn't  much  to  say.  The  essays 
were  judicious,  polished  and  cultivated;  but  they  lacked 
the  freshness  and  audacity  of  his  youthful  work.  I  tried 
to  conceal  my  opinion  behind  the  usual  generalisations, 
but  he  broke  through  these  feints  with  a  quick  thrust  to 
the  heart  of  my  meaning. 

"It's  worn  down — blurred?  Like  the  figures  in  the 
Cumnors'  tapestry?" 

I  hesitated.  "It's  a  little  too  damned  resigned,"  I  said. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "so  am  I.  Resigned."  He  switched 
the  bare  brambles  by  the  roadside.  "A  man  can't  serve 
two  masters." 

"You  mean  business  and  literature?" 

"No;  I  mean  theory  and  instinct.  The  gray  tree  and 
the  green.  You've  got  to  choose  which  fruit  you'll  try; 
and  you  don't  know  till  afterward  which  of  the  two  has 
the  dead  core." 

"How  can  anybody  be  sure  that  only  one  of  them  has  ?" 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Merrick  sharply. 
[  201  ] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

We  turned  back  to  the  subject  of  his  essays,  and  I  was 
astonished  at  the  detachment  with  which  he  criticised 
and  demolished  them.  Little  by  little,  as  we  talked,  his 
old  perspective,  his  old  standards  came  back  to  him; 
but  with  the  difference  that  they  no  longer  seemed  like 
functions  of  his  mind  but  merely  like  attitudes  assumed 
or  dropped  at  will.  He  could  still,  with  an  effort,  put  him 
self  at  the  angle  from  which  he  had  formerly  seen  things; 
but  it  was  with  the  effort  of  a  man  climbing  mountains 
after  a  sedentary  life  in  the  plain. 

I  tried  to  cut  the  talk  short,  but  he  kept  coming  back 
to  it  with  nervous  insistence,  forcing  me  into  the  last 
retrenchments  of  hypocrisy,  and  anticipating  the  verdict 
I  held  back.  I  perceived  that  a  great  deal — immensely 
more  than  I  could  see  a  reason  for — had  hung  for  him  on 
my  opinion  of  his  book. 

Then,  as  suddenly,  his  insistence  dropped  and,  as  if 
ashamed  of  having  forced  himself  so  long  on  my  atten 
tion,  he  began  to  talk  rapidly  and  uninterestingly  of  other 
things. 

We  were  alone  again  that  evening,  and  after  dinner, 
wishing  to  efface  the  impression  of  the  afternoon,  and 
above  all  to  show  that  I  wanted  him  to  talk  about  him 
self,  I  reverted  to  his  work.  "You  must  need  an  outlet 
of  that  sort.  When  a  man's  once  had  it  in  him,  as  you 
have — and  when  other  things  begin  to  dwindle — " 

He  laughed.  "Your  theory  is  that  a  man  ought  to  be 
[202] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

able  to  return  to  the  Muse  as  he  comes  back  to  his  wife 
after  he's  ceased  to  interest  other  women?" 

"No;  as  he  comes  back  to  his  wife  after  the  day's  work 
is  done."  A  new  thought  came  to  me  as  I  looked  at  him. 
"You  ought  to  have  had  one,"  I  added. 

He  laughed  again.  "A  wife,  you  mean?  So  that  there'd 
have  been  some  one  waiting  for  me  even  if  the  Muse  de 
camped?"  He  went  on  after  a  pause:  "I've  a  notion  that 
the  kind  of  woman  worth  coming  back  to  wouldn't  be 
much  more  patient  than  the  Muse.  But  as  it  happens  I 
never  tried — because,  for  fear  they'd  chuck  me,  I  put 
them  both  out  of  doors  together." 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  past  me  with  a  queer 
expression  at  the  low  panelled  door  at  my  back.  "Out  of 
that  very  door  they  went — the  two  of  'em,  on  a  rainy 
night  like  this:  and  one  stopped  and  looked  back,  to  see 
if  I  wasn't  going  to  call  her — and  I  didn't — and  so  they 
both  went " 


III 


"^  •  ^HE  Muse?"  (said  Merrick,  refilling  my  glass  and 
•*•     stooping  to  pat  the  terrier  as  he  went  back  to  his 
chair) — "well,  you've  met  the  Muse  in  the  little  volume 
of  sonnets  you  used  to  like;  and  you've  met  the  woman 
too,  and  you  used  to  like  her;  though  you  didn't  know 
her  when  you  saw  her  the  other  evening.  .  .  . 
[203] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"No,  I  won't  ask  you  how  she  struck  you  when  you 
talked  to  her:  I  know.  She  struck  you  like  that  stuff  I 
gave  you  to  read  last  night.  She's  conformed — I've  con 
formed — the  mills  have  caught  us  and  ground  us:  ground 
us,  oh,  exceedingly  small ! 

"But  you  remember  what  she  was;  and  that's  the  reason 
why  I'm  telling  you  this  now.  .  .  . 

"You  may  recall  that  after  niy  father's  death  I  tried 
to  sell  the  Works.  I  was  impatient  to  free  myself  from 
anything  that  would  keep  me  tied  to  New  York.  I  don't 
dislike  my  trade,  and  I've  made,  in  the  end,  a  fairly  good 
thing  of  it;  but  industrialism  was  not,  at  that  time,  in 
the  line  of  my  tastes,  and  I  know  now  that  it  wasn't  what 
I  was  meant  for.  Above  all,  I  wanted  to  get  away,  to  see 
new  places  and  rub  up  against  different  ideas.  I  had 
reached  a  time  of  life — the  top  of  the  first  hill,  so  to 
speak — where  the  distance  draws  one,  and  everything  in 
the  foreground  seems  tame  and  stale.  I  was  sick  to  death 
of  the  particular  set  of  conformities  I  had  grown  up 
among;  sick  of  being  a  pleasant  popular  young  man  with 
a  long  line  of  dinners  on  my  list,  and  the  dead  certainty 
of  meeting  the  same  people,  or  their  prototypes,  at  all  of 
them. 

"Well — I  failed  to  sell  the  Works,  and  that  increased 

my  discontent.  I  went  through  moods  of  cold  unsocia- 

bility,  alternating  with  sudden  flushes  of  curiosity,  when 

I  gloated  over  stray  scraps  of  talk  overheard  in  railway 

[204] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

stations  and  omnibuses,  when  strange  faces  that  I  passed 
in  the  street  tantalized  me  with  fugitive  promises.  I 
wanted  to  be  among  things  that  were  unexpected  and 
unknown;  and  it  seemed  to  rne  that  nobody  about  me 
understood  in  the  least  what  I  felt,  but  that  somewhere 
just  out  of  reach  there  was  some  one  who  didy  and  whom 
I  must  find  or  despair.  .  .  . 

"It  was  just  then  that,  one  evening,  I  saw  Mrs.  Trant 
for  the  first  time. 

"Yes:  I  know — you  wonder  what  I  mean.  I'd  known 
her,  of  course,  as  a  girl;  I'd  met  her  several  times  after 
her  marriage;  and  I'd  lately  been  thrown  with  her,  quite 
intimately  and  continuously,  during  a  succession  of  coun 
try-house  visits.  But  I  had  never,  as  it  happened,  really 
seen  her.  .  . . 

"It  was  at  a  dinner  at  the  Cumnors';  and  there  she 
was,  in  front  of  the  very  tapestry  we  saw  her  against  the 
other  evening,  with  people  about  her,  and  her  face  turned 
from  me,  and  nothing  noticeable  or  different  in  her  dress 
or  manner;  and  suddenly  she  stood  out  for  me  against  the 
familiar  unimportant  background,  and  for  the  first  time 
I  saw  a  meaning  in  the  stale  phrase  of  a  picture's  walking 
out  of  its  frame.  For,  after  all,  most  people  are  just  that 
to  us:  pictures,  furniture,  the  inanimate  accessories  of 
our  little  island-area  of  sensation.  And  then  sometimes 
one  of  these  graven  images  moves  arid  throws  out  live 
filaments  toward  us,  and  the  line  they  make  draws  us 
[205] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

across  the   world  as  the   moon-track   seems  to   draw  a 
boat  across  the  water.  .  . . 

"There  she  stood;  and  as  this  queer  sensation  came  over 
me  I  felt  that  she  was  looking  steadily  at  me,  that  her 
eyes  were  voluntarily,  consciously  resting  on  me  with  the 
weight  of  the  very  question  I  was  asking. 

"I  went  over  and  joined  her,  and  she  turned  and 
walked  with  me  into  the  music-room.  Earlier  in  the  eve 
ning  some  one  had  been  singing,  and  there  were  low  lights 
there,  and  a  few  couples  still  sitting  in  those  confidential 
corners  of  which  Mrs.  Cumnor  has  the  art;  but  we  were 
under  no  illusion  as  to  the  nature  of  these  presences.  We 
knew  that  they  were  just  painted  in,  and  that  the  whole 
of  life  was  in  us  two,  flowing  back  and  forward  between 
us.  We  talked,  of  course;  we  had  the  attitudes,  even  the 
words,  of  the  others :  I  remember  her  telling  me  her  plans 
for  the  spring  and  asking  me  politely  about  mine!  As  if 
there  were  the  least  sense  in  plans,  now  that  this  thing 
had  happened ! 

"When  we  went  back  into  the  drawing-room  I  had 
said  nothing  to  her  that  I  might  not  have  said  to  any 
other  woman  of  the  party;  but  when  we  shook  hands  I 
knew  we  should  meet  the  next  day — and  the  next.  .  .  . 

"That's  the  way,  I  take  it,  that  Nature  has  arranged 
the  beginning  of  the  great  enduring  loves;  and  likewise 
of  the  little  epidermal  flurries.  And  how  is  a  man  to  know 
where  he  is  going? 

[206] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"From  the  first  my  feeling  for  Paulina  Trant  seemed 
to  me  a  grave  business;  but  then  the  Enemy  is  given  to 
producing  that  illusion.  Many  a  man — I'm  talking  of 
the  kind  with  imagination — has  thought  he  was  seeking 
a  soul  when  all  he  wanted  was  a  closer  view  of  its  tene 
ment.  And  I  tried — honestly  tried — to  make  myself  think 
I  was  in  the  latter  case.  Because,  in  the  first  place,  I 
didn't,  just  then,  want  a  big  disturbing  influence  in  my 
life;  and  because  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  dupe;  and  because 
Paulina  Trant  was  not,  according  to  hearsay,  the  kind 
of  woman  for  whom  it  was  worth  while  to  bring  up  the 
big  batteries. . . . 

"But  my  resistance  was  only  half-hearted.  What  I 
really  felt — all  I  really  felt — was  the  flood  of  joy  that 
comes  of  heightened  emotion.  She  had  given  me  that,  and 
I  wanted  her  to  give  it  to  me  again.  That's  as  near  as 
I've  ever  come  to  analyzing  my  state  in  the  beginning. 

"I  knew  her  story,  as  no  doubt  you  know  it:  the  cur 
rent  version,  I  mean.  She  had  been  poor  and  fond  of  en 
joyment,  and  she  had  married  that  pompous  stick  Philip 
Trant  because  she  needed  a  home,  and  perhaps  also  be 
cause  she  wanted  a  little  luxury.  Queer  how  we  sneer  at 
women  for  wanting  the  thing  that  gives  them  half  their 
attraction ! 

"People  shook  their  heads  over  the  marriage,  and 
divided,  prematurely,  into  Philip's  partisans  and  hers: 
for  no  one  thought  it  would  work.  And  they  were  almost 
[207] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

disappointed  when,  after  all,  it  did.  She  and  her  wooden 
consort  seemed  to  get  on  well  enough.  There  was  a  ripple, 
at  one  time,  over  her  friendship  with  young  Jim  Dalham, 
who  was  always  with  her  during  a  summer  at  Newport 
and  an  autumn  in  Italy;  then  the  talk  died  out,  and  she 
and  Trant  were  seen  together,  as  before,  on  terms  of  ap 
parent  good-fellowship. 

"This  was  the  more  surprising  because,  from  the  first, 
Paulina  had  never  made  the  least  attempt  to  change  her 
tone  or  subdue  her  colours.  In  the  gray  Trant  atmosphere 
she  flashed  with  prismatic  fires.  She  smoked,  she  talked 
subversively,  she  did  as  she  liked  and  went  where  she 
chose,  and  danced  over  the  Trant  prejudices  and  the 
Trant  principles  as  if  they'd  been  a  ball-room  floor;  and 
all  without  apparent  offence  to  her  solemn  husband  and 
his  cloud  of  cousins.  I  believe  her  frankness  and  direct 
ness  struck  them  dumb.  She  moved  like  a  kind  of  primi 
tive  Una  through  the  virtuous  rout,  and  never  got  a 
finger-mark  on  her  freshness. 

"One  of  the  finest  things  about  her  was  the  fact  that 
she  never,  for  an  instant,  used  her  situation  as  a  means 
of  enhancing  her  attraction.  With  a  husband  like  Trant 
it  would  have  been  so  easy!  He  was  a  man  who  always 
saw  the  small  sides  of  big  things.. He  thought  most  of  life 
compressible  into  a  set  of  by-laws  and  the  rest  unmen 
tionable;  and  with  his  stiff  frock-coated  and  tall-hatted 
mind,  instinctively  distrustful  of  intelligences  in  another 

[80S] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

dress,  with  his  arbitrary  classification  of  whatever  he 
didn't  understand  into  'the  kind  of  thing  I  don't  ap 
prove  of,'  'the  kind  of  thing  that  isn't  done,'  and — 
deepest  depth  of  all — 'the  kind  of  thing  I'd  rather  not 
discuss,'  he  lived  in  bondage  to  a  shadowy  moral  eti 
quette  of  which  the  complex  rites  and  awful  penalties 
had  cast  an  abiding  gloom  upon  his  manner. 

"A  woman  like  his  wife  couldn't  have  asked  a  better 
foil;  yet  I'm  sure  she  never  consciously  used  his  dullness 
to  relieve  her  brilliancy.  She  may  have  felt  that  the  case 
spoke  for  itself.  But  I  believe  her  reserve  was  rather  due 
to  a  lively  sense  of  justice,  and  to  the  rare  habit  (you  said 
she  was  rare)  of  looking  at  facts  as  they  are,  without 
any  throwing  of  sentimental  lime-lights.  She  knew  Trant 
could  no  more  help  being  Trant  than  she  could  help  being 
herself — and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  I've  never  known  a 
woman  who  'made  up'  so  little  mentally.  .  . . 

"Perhaps  her  very  reserve,  the  fierceness  of  her  implicit 
rejection  of  sympathy,  exposed  her  the  more  to — well, 
to  what  happened  when  we  met.  She  said  afterward  that 
it  was  like  having  been  shut  up  for  months  in  the  hold  of 
a  ship,  and  coming  suddenly  on  deck  on  a  day  that  was 
all  flying  blue  and  silver.  .  .  . 

"I  won't  try  to  tell  you  what  she  was.  It's  easier  to 

tell  you  what  her  friendship  made  of  me;  and  I  can  do 

that  best  by  adopting  her  metaphor  of  the  ship.  Haven't 

you,  sometimes,  at  the  moment  of  starting  on  a  journey, 

[209] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

some  glorious  plunge  into  the  unknown,  been  tripped  up 
by  the  thought:  'If  only  one  hadn't  to  come  back'? 
Well,  with  her  one  had  the  sense  that  one  would  never 
have  to  come  back;  that  the  magic  ship  would  always 
carry  one  farther.  And  what  an  air  one  breathed  on  it! 
And,  oh,  the  wind,  and  the  islands,  and  the  sunsets ! 

"I  said  just  now  'her  friendship';  and  I  used  the  word 
advisedly.  Love  is  deeper  than  friendship,  but  friendship 
is  a  good  deal  wider.  The  beauty  of  our  relation  was  that 
it  included  both  dimensions.  Our  thoughts  met  as  natu 
rally  as  our  eyes :  it  was  almost  as  if  we  loved  each  other 

.  i,      because  we  liked  each  other.  The  quality  of  a  love  may 
- 

be  tested  by  the  amount  of  friendship  it  contains,  and  in 

our  case  there  was  no  dividing  line  between  loving  and 
liking,  no  disproportion  between  them,  no  barrier  against 
which  desire  beat  in  vain  or  from  which  thought  fell  back 
unsatisfied.  Ours  was  a  robust  passion  that  could  give 
an  open-eyed  account  of  itself,  and  not  a  beautiful  mad 
ness  shrinking  away  from  the  proof.  . .  . 

"For  the  first  months  friendship  sufficed  us,  or  rather 
gave  us  so  much  by  the  way  that  we  were  in  no  hurry  to 
reach  what  we  knew  it  was  leading  to.  But  we  were  mov 
ing  there  nevertheless,  and  one  day  we  found  ourselves 
on  the  borders.  It  came  about  through  a  sudden  decision 
of  Trant's  to  start  on  a  long  tour  with  his  wife.  We  had 
never  foreseen  that:  he  seemed  rooted  in  his  New  York 
habits  and  convinced  that  the  whole  social  and  financial 
[2101 


THE    LONG    RUN 

machinery  of  the  metropolis  would  cease  to  function  if 
he  did  not  keep  an  eye  on  it  through  the  columns  of  his 
morning  paper,  and  pronounce  judgment  on  it  in  the 
afternoon  at  his  club.  But  something  new  had  happened 
to  him:  he  caught  a  cold,  which  was  followed  by  a  touch 
of  pleurisy,  and  instantly  he  perceived  the  intense  inter 
est  and  importance  which  ill-health  may  add  to  life.  He 
took  the  fullest  advantage  of  it.  A  discerning  doctor 
recommended  travel  in  a  warm  climate;  and  suddenly, 
the  morning  paper,  the  afternoon  club,  Fifth  Avenue, 
Wall  Street,  all  the  complex  phenomena  of  the  metrop 
olis,  faded  into  insignificance,  and  the  rest  of  the  terres 
trial  globe,  from  being  a  mere  geographical  hypothesis, 
useful  in  enabling  one  to  determine  the  latitude  of  New 
York,  acquired  reality  and  magnitude  as  a  factor  in  the 
convalescence  of  Mr.  Philip  Trant. 

"His  wife  was  absorbed  in  preparations  for  the  jour 
ney.  To  move  him  was  like  mobilizing  an  army,  and 
weeks  before  the  date  set  for  their  departure  it  was  al 
most  as  if  she  were  already  gone. 

"This  foretaste  of  separation  showed  us  what  we  were 
to  each  other.  Yet  I  was  letting  her  go — and  there  was  no 
help  .for  it,  no  way  of  preventing  it.  Resistance  was  as 
useless  as  the  vain  struggles  in  a  nightmare.  She  was 
Trant's  and  not  mine:  part  of  his  luggage  when  he  trav 
elled  as  she  was  part  of  his  household  furniture  when  he 
stayed  at  home.  .  .  . 

[211] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"The  day  she  told  me  that  their  passages  were  taken 
— it  was  on  a  November  afternoon,  in  her  drawing-room 
in  town — I  turned  away  from  her  and,  going  to  the 
window,  stood  looking  out  at  the  torrent  of  traffic  inter 
minably  pouring  down  Fifth  Avenue.  I  watched  the  sense 
less  machinery  of  life  revolving  in  the  rain  and  mud,  and 
tried  to  picture  myself  performing  my  small  function  in 
it  after  she  had  gone  from  me. 

"'It  can't  be — it  can't  be!'  I  exclaimed. 

"'What  can't  be?' 

"I  came  back  into  the  room  and  sat  down  by  her. 
'This — this — '  I  hadn't  any  words.  'Two  weeks!'  I  said. 
*  What 's  two  weeks?' 

"She  answered,  vaguely,  something  about  their  think 
ing  of  Spain  for  the  spring — 

"Two  weeks — two  weeks ! '  I  repeated.  'And  the  months 
we've  lost — the  days  that  belonged  to  us ! ' 

"'Yes,'  she  said,  'I'm  thankful  it's  settled.' 

"Our  words  seemed  irrelevant,  haphazard.  It  was  as 
if  each  were  answering  a  secret  voice,  and  not  what  the 
other  was  saying. 

'"Don't  you  feel  anything  at  all?'  I  remember  burst 
ing  out  at  her.  As  I  asked  it  the  tears  were  streaming 
down  her  face.  I  felt  angry  with  her,  and  was  almost  glad 
to  note  that  her  lids  were  red  and  that  she  didn't  cry 
becomingly.  I  can't  express  my  sensation  to  you  except 
by  saying  that  she  seemed  part  of  life's  huge  league 
[212] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

against  me.  And  suddenly  I  thought  of  an  afternoon  we 
had  spent  together  in  the  country,  on  a  ferny  hill-side, 
when  we  had  sat  under  a.  beech-tree,  and  her  hand  had 
lain  palm  upward  in  the  moss,  close  to  mine,  and  I  had 
watched  a  little  black-and-red  beetle  creeping  over  it.  ... 

"The  bell  rang,  and  we  heard  the  voice  of  a  visitor 
and  the  click  of  an  umbrella  in  the  umbrella-stand. 

"She  rose  to  go  into  the  inner  drawing-room,  and  I 
caught  her  suddenly  by  the  wrist.  'You  understand,'  I 
said,  *  that  we  can't  go  on  like  this  ? ' 

"'I  understand,'  she  answered,  and  moved  away  to 
meet  her  visitor.  As  I  went  out  I  heard  her  saying  in  the 
other  room:  'Yes,  we're  really  off  on  the  twelfth.' 


IV 


"  T   WROTE  her  a  long  letter  that  night,  and  waited 

two  days  for  a  reply. 

"On  the  third  day  I  had  a  brief  line  saying  that  she 
was  going  to  spend  Sunday  with  some  friends  who  had  a 
place  near  Riverdale,  and  that  she  would  arrange  to  see 
me  while  she  was  there.  That  was  all. 
.  "JLt  was  on  a  Saturday  that  I  received  the  note  and  I 
came  out  here  the  same  night.  The  next  morning  was 
rainy,  and  I  was  in  despair,  for  I  had  counted  on  her 
asking  me  to  take  her  for  a  drive  or  a  long  walk.  It  was 
hopeless  to  try  to  say  what  I  had  to  say  to  her  in  the 
[213] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

drawing-room  of  a  crowded  country-house.  And  only 
eleven  days  were  left ! 

"I  stayed  indoors  all  the  morning,  fearing  to  go  out 
lest  she  should  telephone  me.  But  no  sign  came,  and  I 
grew  more  and  more  restless  and  anxious.  She  was  too 
free  and  frank  for  coquetry,  but  her  silence  and  evasive 
ness  made  me  feel  that,  for  some  reason,  she  did  not  wish 
to  hear  what  she  knew  I  meant  to  say.  Could  it  be  that 
she  was,  after  all,  more  conventional,  less  genuine,  than 
I  had  thought?  I  went  again  and  again  over  the  whole 
maddening  round  of  conjecture;  but  the  only  conclusion 
I  could  rest  in  was  that,  if  she  loved  me  as  I  loved  her, 
she  would  be  as  determined  as  I  was  to  let  no  obstacle 
come  between  us  during  the  days  that  were  left. 

"The  luncheon-hour  came  and  passed,  and  there  was 
no  word  from  her.  I  had  ordered  my  trap  to  be  ready, 
so  that  I  might  drive  over  as  soon  as  she  summoned  me; 
but  the  hours  dragged  on,  the  early  twilight  came,  and 
I  sat  here  in  this  very  chair,  or  measured  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  the  length  of  this  very  rug — and  still  there 
was  no  message  and  no  letter. 

"It  had  grown  quite  dark,  and  I  had  ordered  away, 
impatiently,  the  servant  who  came  in  with  the  lamps: 
I  couldn't  bear  any  definite  sign  that  the  day  was  over! 
And  I  was  standing  there  on  the  rug,  staring  at  the  door, 
and  noticing  a  bad  crack  in  its  panel,  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  on  the  gravel.  A  word  at  last,  no  doubt 
[214] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

—a  line  to  explain.  ...  I  didn't  seem  to  care  much  for 
her  reasons,  and  I  stood  where  I  was  and  continued  to 
stare  at  the  door.  And  suddenly  it  opened  and  she  came  in. 

"The  servant  followed  her  with  a  light,  and  then  went 
out  and  closed  the  door.  Her  face  looked  pale  in  the  lamp 
light,  but  her  voice  was  as  clear  as  a  bell. 

"'Well,'  she  said,  'you  see  I've  come.' 

"I  started  toward  her  with  hands  outstretched.  'You've 
come — you've  come ! '  I  stammered. 

"Yes;  it  was  like  her  to  come  in  that  way — without 
dissimulation  or  explanation  or  excuse.  It  was  like  her,  if 
she  gave  at  all,  to  give  not  furtively  or  in  haste,  but 
openly,  deliberately,  without  stinting  the  measure  or 
counting  the  cost.  But  her  quietness  and  serenity  discon 
certed  me.  She  did  not  look  like  a  woman  who  has  yielded 
impetuously  to  an  uncontrollable  impulse.  There  was 
something  almost  solemn  in  her  face. 

"The  effect  of  it  stole  over  me  as  I  looked  at  her,  sud 
denly  subduing  the  huge  flush  of  gratified  longing. 

"You're  here,  here,  here!'  I  kept  repeating,  like  a 
child  singing  over  a  happy  word. 

"You  said,'  she  continued,  in  her  grave  clear  voice, 
'that  we  couldn't  go  on  as  we  were — ' 

"'Ah,  it's  divine  of  you !'  I  held  out  my  arms  to  her. 

"She  didn't  draw  back  from  them,  but  her  faint  smile 
said,  'Wait,'  and  lifting  her  hands  she  took  the  pins  from 
her  hat,  and  laid  the  hat  on  the  table. 
[215] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"As  I  saw  her  dear  head  bare  in  the  lamp-light,  with 
the  thick  hair  waving  away  from  the  parting,  I  forgot 
everything  but  the  bliss  and  wonder  of  her  being  here— 
here,  in  my  house,  on  my  hearth — that  fourth  rose  from 
the  corner  of  the  rug  is  the  exact  spot  where  she  was 
standing.  .  .  . 

"I  drew  her  to  the  fire,  and  made  her  sit  down  in  the 
chair  you're  in,  and  knelt  down  by  her,  and  hid  my  face 
on  her  knees.  She  put  her  hand  on  my  head,  and  I  was 
happy  to  the  depths  of  my  soul. 

"'Oh,  I  forgot — '  she  exclaimed  suddenly.  I  lifted  my 
head  and  our  eyes  met.  Hers  were  smiling. 

"She  reached  out  her  hand,  opened  the  little  bag  she 
had  tossed  down  with  her  hat,  and  drew  a  small  object 
from  it.  'I  left  my  trunk  at  the  station.  Here's  the  check. 
Can  you  send  for  it?'  she  asked. 

"Her  trunk — she  wanted  me  to  send  for  her  trunk! 
Oh,  yes — I  see  your  smile,  your  '  lucky  man  ! '  Only,  you 
see,  I  didn't  love  her  in  that  way.  I  knew  she  couldn't 
come  to  my  house  without  running  a  big  risk  of  dis 
covery,  and  my  tenderness  for  her,  my  impulse  to  shield 
her,  was  stronger,  even  then,  than  vanity  or  desire. 
Judged  from  the  point  of  view  of  those  emotions  I  fell 
terribly  short  of  my  part.  I  hadn't  any  of  the  proper  feel 
ings.  Such  an  act  of  romantic  folly  was  so  unlike  her  that 
it  almost  irritated  me,  and  I  found  myself  desperately 
wondering  how  I  could  get  her  to  reconsider  her  plan 
without — well,  without  seeming  to  want  her  to. 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"It's  not  the  way  a  novel  hero  feels;  it's  probably  not 
the  way  a  man  in  real  life  ought  to  have  felt.  But  it's  the 
way  I  felt — and  she  saw  it, 

"She  put  her  hands  on  my  shoulders  and  looked  at  me 
with  deep,  deep  eyes.  'Then  you  didn't  expect  me  to 
stay?'  she  asked. 

"I  caught  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to  me,  stam 
mering  out  that  I  hadn't  dared  to  dream.  .  .  . 

"'You  thought  I'd  come — just  for  an  hour?' 

"'How  could  I  dare  think  more?  I  adore  you,  you 
know,  for  what  you've  done!  But  it  would  be  known  if 
you — if  you  stayed  on.  My  servants — everybody  about 
here  knows  you.  I've  no  right  to  expose  you  to  the  risk/ 
She  made  no  answer,  and  I  went  on  tenderly:  'Give  me, 
if  you  will,  the  next  few  hours:  there's  a  train  that  will 
get  you  to  town  by  midnight.  And  then  we'll  arrange 
something — in  town — where  it's  safer  for  you — more 
easily  managed.  .  .  .  It's  beautiful,  it's  heavenly  of  you 
to  have  come;  but  I  love  you  too  much — I  must  take  care 
of  you  and  think  for  you — ' 

"I  don't  suppose  it  ever  took  me  so  long  to  say  so  few 
words,  and  though  they  were  profoundly  sincere  they 
sounded  unutterably  shallow,  irrelevant  and  grotesque. 
She  made  no  effort  to  help  me  out,  but  sat  silent,  listening, 
with  her  meditative  smile.  'It's  my  duty,  dearest,  as  a 
man,'  I  rambled  on.  The  more  I  love  you  the  more  I'm 
bound — 

"Yes;  but  you  don't  understand,'  she  interrupted. 
[217] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  I  got  up  also,  and  we  stood 
and  looked  at  each  other. 

"'I  haven't  come  for  a  night;  if  you  want  me  I've  come 
for  always/  she  said. 

"Here  again,  if  I  give  you  an  honest  account  of  my 
feelings  I  shall  write  myself  down  as  the  poor-spirited 
creature  I  suppose  I  am.  There  wasn't,  I  swear,  at  the 
moment,  a  grain  of  selfishness,  of  personal  reluctance,  in 
my  feeling.  I  worshipped  every  hair  of  her  head — when 
we  were  together  I  was  happy,  when  I  was  away  from  her 
something  was  gone  from  every  good  thing;  but  I  had 
always  looked  on  our  love  for  each  other,  our  possible 
relation  to  each  other,  as  such  situations  are  looked  on 
!  in  what  is  called  society.  I  had  supposed  her,  for  all  her 
freedom  and  originality,  to  be  just  as  tacitly  subservient 
to  that  view  as  I  was:  ready  to  take  what  she  wanted 
on  the  terms  on  which  society  concedes  such  taking, 
and  to  pay  for  it  by  the  usual  restrictions,  concealments 
and  hypocrisies.  In  short,  I  supposed  that  she  would  'play 
the  game' — look  out  for  her  own  safety,  and  expect  me 
to  look  out  for  it.  It  sounds  cheap  enough,  put  that  way 
• — but  it's  the  rule  we  live  under,  all  of  us.  And  the  amaze 
ment  of  finding  her  suddenly  outside  of  it,  oblivious  of 
it,  unconscious  of  it,  left  me,  for  an  awful  minute,  stam 
mering  at  her  like  a  graceless  dolt.  . .  .  Perhaps  it  wasn't 
even  a  minute;  but  in  it  she  had  gone  the  whole  round  of 
my  thoughts. 

[218] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"'It's  raining,'  she  said,  very  low.  'I  suppose  you  can 
telephone  for  a  trap  ? ' 

"There  was  no  irony  or  resentment  in  her  voice.  She 
walked  slowly  across  the  room  and  paused  before  the 
Brangwyn  etching  over  there.  'That's  a  good  impression. 
Will  you  telephone,  please  ? '  she  repeated. 

"I  found  my  voice  again,  and  with  it  the  power  of 
movement.  I  followed  her  and  dropped  at  her  feet.  'You 
can't  go  like  this ! '  I  cried. 

"She  looked  down  on  me  from  heights  and  heights. 
'I  can't  stay  like  this,'  she  answered. 

"I  stood  up  and  we  faced  each  other  like  antagonists. 
*You  don't  know,'  I  accused  her  passionately,  'in  the 
least  what  you're  asking  me  to  ask  of  you ! ' 

"Yes,  I  do:  everything,'  she  breathed. 

'"And  it's  got  to  be  that  or  nothing?' 

"'Oh,  on  both  sides,'  she  reminded  me. 

"'Not  on  both  sides.  It's  not  fair.  That's  why—' 

"'Why  you  won't?' 

'"Why  I  cannot— may  not!' 

"Why  you'll  take  a  night  and  not  a  life?' 

"The  taunt,  for  a  woman  usually  so  sure  of  her  aim,  ' 
fell  so  short  of  the  mark  that  its  only  effect  was  to  increase 
my  conviction  of  her  helplessness.  The  very  intensity  of 
my  longing  for  her  made  me  tremble  where  she  was  fear 
less.  I  had  to  protect  her  first,  and  think  of  my  own  atti 
tude  afterward. 

[219] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"She  was  too  discerning  not  to  see  this  too.  Her  face 
softened,  grew  inexpressibly  appealing,  and  she  dropped 
again  into  that  chair  you're  in,  leaned  forward,  and 
looked  up  with  her  grave  smile. 

'"You  think  I'm  beside  myself — raving?  (You're  not 
thinking  of  yourself,  I  know.)  I'm  not:  I  never  was  saner. 
Since  I've  known  you  I've  often  thought  this  might  hap 
pen.  This  thing  between  us  isn't  an  ordinary  thing.  If  it 
had  been  we  shouldn't,  all  these  months,  have  drifted. 
We  should  have  wanted  to  skip  to  the  last  page — and  then 
throw  down  the  book.  We  shouldn't  have  felt  we  could 
trust  the  future  as  we  did.  We  were  in  no  hurry  because 
we  knew  we  shouldn't  get  tired;  and  when  two  people 
feel  that  about  each  other  they  must  live  together — or 
part.  I  don't  see  what  else  they  can  do.  A  little  trip  along 
the  coast  won't  answer.  It's  the  high  seas — or  else  being 
tied  up  to  Lethe  wharf.  And  I'm  for  the  high  seas,  my 
dear ! ' 

"Think  of  sitting  here — here,  in  this  room,  in  this 
chair — and  listening  to  that,  and  seeing  the  light  on  her 
hair,  and  hearing  the  sound  of  her  voice !  I  don't  suppose 
there  ever  was  a  scene  just  like  it.  ... 

"She  was  astounding — inexhaustible;  through  all  my 
anguish  of  resistance  I  found  a  kind  of  fierce  joy  in  fol 
lowing  her.  It  was  lucidity  at  white  heat:  the  last  sublima 
tion  of  passion.  She  might  have  been  an  angel  arguing 
a  point  in  the  empyrean  if  she  hadn't  been,  so  completely, 
a  woman  pleading  for  her  life.  .  .  . 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"Her  life:  that  was  the  thing  at  stake!  She  couldn't 
do  with  less  of  it  than  she  was  capable  of;  and  a  woman's 
life  is  inextricably  part  of  the  man's  she  cares  for. 

"That  was  why,  she  argued,  she  couldn't  accept  the 
usual  solution:  couldn't  enter  into  the  only  relation  that 
society  tolerates  between  people  situated  like  ourselves. 
Yes:  she  knew  all  the  arguments  on  that  side:  didn't  I 
suppose  she'd  been  over  them  and  over  them  ?  She  knew 
(for  hadn't  she  often  said  it  of  others?)  what  is  said  of 
the  woman  who,  by  throwing  in  her  lot  writh  her  lover's, 
binds  him  to  a  lifelong  duty  which  has  the  irksomeness 
without  the  dignity  of  .marriage.  Oh,  she  could  talk  on 
that  side  with  the  best  of  them:  only  she  asked  me  to 
consider  the  other — the  side  of  the  man  and  woman  who 
love  each  other  deeply  and  completely  enough  to  want 
their  lives  enlarged,  and  not  diminished,  by  their  love. 
What,  in  such  a  case — she  reasoned — must  be  the  inevita 
ble  effect  of  concealing,  denying,  disowning,  the  central 
fact,  the  motive  power  of  one's  existence?  She  asked  me 
to  picture  the  course  of  such  a  love:  first  working  as  a 
fever  in  the  blood,  distorting  and  deflecting  everything, 
making  all  other  interests  insipid,  all  other  duties  irksome, 
and,  then,  as  the  acknowledged  claims  of  life  regained 
their  hold,  gradually  dying — the  poor  starved  passion ! — 
for  want  of  the  wholesome  necessary  food  of  common 
living  and  doing,  yet  leaving  life  impoverished  by  the 
loss  of  all  it  might  have  been. 

"I'm  not  talking,  dear — '  I  see  her  now,  leaning  toward 


THE    LONG    RUN 

me  with  shining  eyes:  'I'm  not  talking  of  the  people  who 
haven't  enough  to  fill  their  days,  and  to  whom  a  little 
mystery,  a  little  manoeuvring,  gives  an  illusion  of  im 
portance  that  they  can't  afford  to  miss;  I'm  talking  of 
you  and  me,  with  all  our  tastes  and  curiosities  and  activi 
ties;  and  I  ask  you  what  our  love  would  become  if  we 
had  to  keep  it  apart  from  our  lives,  like  a  pretty  useless 
animal  that  we  went  to  peep  at  and  feed  with  sweet 
meats  through  its  cage  ? ' 

"I  won't,  my  dear  fellow,  go  into  the  other  side  of  our 
strange  duel:  the  arguments  I  used  were  those  that  most 
men  in  my  situation  would  have  felt  bound  to  use,  and 
that  most  women  in  Paulina's  accept  instinctively,  with 
out  even  formulating  them.  The  exceptionalness,  the 
significance,  of  the  case  lay  wholly  in  the  fact  that  she  had 
formulated  them  all  and  then  rejected  them.  . . . 

"There  was  one  point  I  didn't,  of  course,  touch  on; 
and  that  was  the  popular  conviction  (which  I  confess  I 
shared)  that  when  a  man  and  a  woman  agree  to  defy  the 
world  together  the  man  really  sacrifices  much  more  than 
the  woman.  I  was  not  even  conscious  of  thinking  of  this 
at  the  time,  though  it  may  have  lurked  somewhere  in  the 
shadow  of  my  scruples  for  her;  but  she  dragged  it  out 
into  the  daylight  and  held  me  face  to  face  with  it. 

"'Remember,  I'm  not  attempting  to  lay  down  any 
general  rule,'  she  insisted;  'I'm  not  theorizing  about  Man 
and  Woman,  I'm  talking  about  you  and  me.  How  do  I 
[222] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

know  what's  best  for  the  woman  in  the  next  house  ?  Very 
likely  she'll  bolt  when  it  would  have  been  better  for  her 
to  stay  at  home.  And  it's  the  same  with  the  man:  he'll 
probably  do  the  wrong  thing.  It's  generally  the  weak 
heads  that  commit  follies,  when  it's  the  strong  ones  that 
ought  to:  and  my  point  is  that  you  and  I  are  both  strong 
enough  to  behave  like  fools  if  we  want  to.  ... 

"Take  your  own  case  first— because,  in  spite  of  the 
sentimentalists,  it's  the  man  who  stands  to  lose  most. 
You'll  have  to  give  up  the  Iron  Works:  which  you  don't 
much  care  about — because  it  won't  be  particularly  agree 
able  for  us  to  live  in  New  York:  which  you  don't  care 
much  about  either.  But  you  won't  be  sacrificing  what  is 
called  "a  career."  You  made  up  your  mind  long  ago  that 
your  best  chance  of  self-development,  and  consequently 
of  general  usefulness,  lay  in  thinking  rather  than  doing; 
and,  when  we  first  met,  you  were  already  planning  to  sell 
out  your  business,  and  travel  and  write.  Well !  Those  am 
bitions  are  of  a  kind  that  won't  be  harmed  by  your  drop 
ping  out  of  your  social  setting.  On  the  contrary,  such  work 
as  you  want  to  do  ought  to  gain  by  it,  because  you'll  be 
brought  nearer  to  life-as-it-is,  in  contrast  to  life-as-a- 
visiting-list.  .  .  .' 

"She  threw  back  her  head  with  a  sudden  laugh.  'And 

the  joy  of  not  having  any  more  visits  to  make !  I  wonder 

if  you've  ever  thought  of  that?  Just  at  first,  I  mean;  for 

society's  getting  so  deplorably  lax  that,  little  by  little,  it 

[2231 


THE    LONG    RUN 

will  edge  up  to  us — you'll  see !  I  don't  want  to  idealize  the 
situation,  dearest,  and  I  won't  conceal  from  you  that  in 
time  we  shall  be  called  on.  But,  oh,  the  fun  we  shall  have 
had  in  the  interval !  And  then,  for  the  first  time  we  shall 
be  able  to  dictate  our  own  terms,  one  of  which  will  be 
that  no  bores  need  apply.  Think  of  being  cured  of  all 
one's  chronic  bores!  We  shall  feel  as  jolly  as  people  do 
after  a  successful  operation.' 

"I  don't  know  why  this  nonsense  sticks  in  my  mind 
when  some  of  the  graver  things  we  said  are  less  distinct. 
Perhaps  it's  because  of  a  certain  iridescent  quality  of 
feeling  that  made  her  gaiety  seem  like  sunshine  through 
a  shower.  .  .  . 

"You  ask  me  to  think  of  myself?'  she  went  on.  'But 
the  beauty  of  our  being  together  will  be  that,  for  the  first 
time,  I  shall  dare  to !  Now  I  have  to  think  of  all  the  tedious 
trifles  I  can  pack  the  days  with,  because  I'm  afraid — 
I'm  afraid — to  hear  the  voice  of  the  real  me,  down  be 
low,  in  the  windowless  underground  hole  where  I  keep 
her.  .  .  . 

'"Remember  again,  please,  it's  not  Woman,  it's  Paulina 
Trant,  I'm  talking  of.  The  woman  in  the  next  house  may 
have  all  sorts  of  reasons — honest  reasons — for  staying 
there.  There  may  be  some  one  there  who  needs  her  badly : 
for  whom  the  light  would  go  out  if  she  went.  Whereas  to 
Philip  I've  been  simply — well,  what  New  York  was  be 
fore  he  decided  to  travel:  the  most  important  thing  in 
[224] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

life  till  he  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  it;  and  now  merely 
the  starting-place  of  several  lines  of  steamers.  Oh,  I  didn't 
have  to  love  you  to  know  that!  I  only  had  to  live  with 

him If  he  lost  his  eye-glasses  he'd  think  it  was  the 

fault  of  the  eye-glasses;  he'd  really  feel  that  the  eye 
glasses  had  been  careless.  And  he'd  be  convinced  that  no 
others  would  suit  him  quite  as  well.  But  at  the  optician's 
he'd  probably  be  told  that  he  needed  something  a  little 
different,  and  after  that  he'd  feel  that  the  old  eye-glasses 
had  never  suited  him  at  all,  and  that  that  was  their  fault 
too.  . . .' 

"At  one  moment — but  I  don't  recall  when — I  remem 
ber  she  stood  up  with  one  of  her  quick  movements,  and 
came  toward  me,  holding  out  her  arms.  'Oh,  my  dear, 
I'm  pleading  for  my  life;  do  you  suppose  I  shall  ever  want 
for  arguments?'  she  cried 

"After  that,  for  a  bit,  nothing  much  remains  with  me 
except  a  sense  of  darkness  and  of  conflict.  The  one  spot 
of  daylight  in  my  whirling  brain  was  the  conviction  that 
I  couldn't — whatever  happened — profit  by  the  sudden 
impulse  she  had  acted  on,  and  allow  her  to  take,  in  a 
moment  of  passion,  a  decision  that  was  to  shape  her 
whole  life.  I  couldn't  so  much  as  lift  my  little  finger  to 
keep  her  with  me  then,  unless  I  were  prepared  to  accept 
for  her  as  well  as  for  myself  the  full  consequences  of  the 
future  she  had  planned  for  us.  ... 

"Well— there's  the  point:  I  wasn't.  I  felt  in  her— poor 


THE    LONG    RUN 

fatuous  idiot  that  I  was ! — that  lack  of  objective  imagina 
tion  which  had  always  seemed  to  me  to  account,  at  least 
in  part,  for  many  of  the  so-called  heroic  qualities  in 
women.  When  their  feelings  are  involved  they  simply 
can't  look  ahead.  Her  unfaltering  logic  notwithstanding, 
I  felt  this  about  Paulina  as  I  listened.  She  had  a  specious 
air  of  knowing  where  she  was  going,  but  she  didn't.  She 
seemed  the  genius  of  logic  and  understanding,  but  the 
demon  of  illusion  spoke  through  her  lips.  .  .  . 

"I  said  just  now  that  I  hadn't,  at  the  outset,  given 
my  own  side  of  the  case  a  thought.  It  would  have  been 
truer  to  say  that  I  hadn't  given  it  a  separate  thought.  But 
I  couldn't  think  of  her  without  seeing  myself  as  a  factor — 
the  chief  factor — in  her  problem,  and  without  recognizing 
that  whatever  the  experiment  made  of  me,  that  it  must 
fatally,  in  the  end,  make  of  her.  If  I  couldn't  carry  the 
thing  through  she  must  break  down  with  me:  we  should 
have  to  throw  our  separate  selves  into  the  melting-pot 
of  this  mad  adventure,  and  be  'one'  in  a  terrible  indis 
soluble  completeness  of  which  marriage  is  only  an  imper 
fect  counterpart.  .  .  . 

"There  could  be  no  better  proof  of  her  extraordinary 
power  over  me,  and  of  the  way  she  had  managed  to  clear 
the  air  of  sentimental  illusion,  than  the  fact  that  I  pres 
ently  found  myself  putting  this  before  her  with  a  merci 
less  precision  of  touch. 

"'If  we  love  each  other  enough  to  do  a  thing  like  this, 
[  2*0  ] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

we  must  love  each  other  enough  to  see  just  what  it  is 
we're 'going  to  do.' 

"So  I  invited  her  to  the  dissecting-table,  and  I  see  now 
the  fearless  eye  with  which  she  approached  the  cadaver. 
'For  that's  what  it  is,  you  know,'  she  flashed  out  at  me, 
at  the  end  of  my  long  demonstration.  'It's  a  dead  body, 
like  all  the  instances  and  examples  and  hypothetical  cases 
that  ever  were !  What  do  you  expect  to  learn  from  that  ? 
The  first  great  anatomist  was  the  man  who  stuck  his 
knife  in  a  heart  that  was  beating;  and  the  only  way  to 
find  out  what  doing  a  thing  will  be  like  is  to  do  it ! ' 

"She  looked  away  from  me  suddenly,  as  if  she  were 
fixing  her  eyes  on  some  vision  on  the  outer  rim  of  con 
sciousness.  'No:  there's  one  other  way,'  she  exclaimed; 
'and  that  is,  not  to  do  it !  To  abstain  and  refrain;  and  then 
see  what  we  become,  or  what  we  don't  become,  in  the 
long  run,  and  to  draw  our  inferences.  That's  the  game 
that  almost  everybody  about  us  is  playing,  I  suppose; 
there's  hardly  one  of  the  dull  people  one  meets  at  dinner 
who  hasn't  had,  just  once,  the  chance  of  a  berth  on  a 
ship  that  was  off  for  the  Happy  Isles,  and  hasn't  refused 
it  for  fear  of  sticking  on  a  sand-bank ! 

4 "I'm  doing  my  best,  you  know,'  she  continued,  'to 
see  the  sequel  as  you  see  it,  as  you  believe  it's  your  duty 
to  me  to  see  it.  I  know  the  instances  you're  thinking  of: 
the  listless  couples  wearing  out  their  lives  in  shabby 
watering  places,  and  hanging  on  the  favour  of  hotel  ac- 
[227] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

quaintances;  or  the  proud  quarrelling  wretches  shut  up 
alone  in  a  fine  house  because  they're  too  good  for  the  only 
society  they  can  get,  and  trying  to  cheat  their  boredom 
by  squabbling  with  their  tradesmen  and  spying  on  their 
servants.  No  doubt  there  are  such  cases;  but  I  don't 
recognize  either  of  us  in  those  dismal  figures.  Why,  to 
do  it  would  be  to  admit  that  our  life,  yours  and  mine,  is 
in  the  people  about  us  and  not  in  ourselves;  thatjwejre 
parasites  and  not  self-sustaining  creatures;  and  that  the 
lives  we're  leading  now  are  so  brilliant,  full  and  satisfy 
ing  that  what  we  should  have  to  give  up  would  surpass 
even  the  blessedness  of  being  together ! ' 

"At  that  stage,  I  confess,  the  solid  ground  of  my  re 
sistance  began  to  give  way  under  me.  It  was  not  that  my 
convictions  were  shaken,  but  that  she  had  swept  me  into 
a  world  whose  laws  were  different,  where  one  could  reach 
out  in  directions  that  the  slave  of  gravity  hasn't  pictured. 
But  at  the  same  time  my  opposition  hardened  from  reason 
into  instinct.  I  knew  it  was  her  voice,  and  not  her  logic, 
that  was  unsettling  me.  I  knew  that  if  she'd  written  out 
her  thesis  and  sent  it  me  by  post  I  should  have  made 
short  work  of  it;  and  again  the  part  of  me  which  I  called 
by  all  the  finest  names:  my  chivalry,  my  unselfishness, 
my  superior  masculine  experience,  cried  out  with  one 
voice:  'You  can't  let  a  woman  use  her  graces  to  her  own 
undoing — you  can't,  for  her  own  sake,  let  her  eyes  con 
vince  you  when  her  reasons  don't!' 
[  228  ] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"And  then,  abruptly,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  doubt 
entered  me:  a  doubt  of  her  perfect  moral  honesty.  I  don't 
know  how  else  to  describe  my  feeling  that  she  wasn't 
playing  fan*,  that  in  coming  to  my  house,  in  throwing 
herself  at  my  head  (I  called  things  by  their  names),  she 
had  perhaps  not  so  much  obeyed  an  irresistible  impulse 
as  deeply,  deliberately  reckoned  on  the  dissolvent  effect 
of  her  generosity,  her  rashness  and  her  beauty.  .  . . 

"From  the  moment  that  this  mean  doubt  raised  its 
head  in  me  I  was  once  more  the  creature  of  all  the  con 
ventional  scruples:  I  was  repeating,  before  the  looking- 
glass  of  my  self-consciousness,  all  the  stereotyped  gestures 
of  the  'man  of  honour.' .  .  .  Oh,  the  sorry  figure  I  must 
have  cut !  You'll  understand  my  dropping  the  curtain  on 
it  as  quickly  as  I  can.  .  .  . 

"Yet  I  remember,  as  I  made  my  point,  being  struck  ^ 
by  its  impressiveness.  I  was  suffering  and  enjoying  my 
own  suffering.  I  told  her  that,  whatever  step  we  decided 
to  take,  I  owed  it  to  her  to  insist  on  its  being  taken  soberly, 
deliberately — 

"('No:  it's  "advisedly,"  isn't  it?  Oh,  I  was  thinking  of 
the  Marriage  Service,'  she  interposed  with  a  faint  laugh.) 

" — that  if  I  accepted,  there,  on  the  spot,  her  headlong 
beautiful  gift  of  herself,  I  should  feel  I  had  taken  an  un 
fair  advantage  of  her,  an  advantage  which  she  would  be 
justified  in  reproaching  me  with  afterward;  that  I  was 
not  afraid  to  tell  her  this  because  she  was  intelligent 


THE    LONG    RUN 

enough  to  know  that  my  scruples  were  the  surest  proof 
of  the  quality  of  my  love;  that  I  refused  to  owe  my  happi 
ness  to  an  unconsidered  impulse;  that  we  must  see  each 
other  again,  in  her  own  house,  in  less  agitating  circum 
stances,  when  she  had  had  time  to  reflect  on  my  words, 
to  study  her  heart  and  look  into  the  future.  .  .  . 

"The  factitious  exhilaration  produced  by  uttering 
these  beautiful  sentiments  did  not  last  very  long,  as  you 
may  imagine.  It  fell,  little  by  little,  under  her  quiet  gaze, 
a  gaze  in  which  there  was  neither  contempt  nor  irony 
nor  wounded  pride,  but  only  a  tender  wistfulness  of  in 
terrogation;  and  I  think  the  acutest  point  in  my  suffer 
ing  was  reached  when  she  said,  as  I  ended:  'Oh;  yes,  of 
course  I  understand.' 

"'If  only  you  hadn't  come  to  me  here!'  I  blurted  out 
in  the  torture  of  my  soul. 

"She  was  on  the  threshold  when  I  said  it,  and  she 
turned  and  laid  her  hand  gently  on  mine.  'There  was  no 
other  way,'  she  said;  and  at  the  moment  it  seemed  to  me 
like  some  hackneyed  phrase  in  a  novel  that  she  had  used 
without  any  sense  of  its  meaning. 

"I  don't  remember  what  I  answered  or  what  more  we 
either  of  us  said.  At  the  end  a  desperate  longing  to  take 
her  in  my  arms  and  keep  her  with  me  swept  aside  every- 
tliing  else,  and  I  went  up  to  her,  pleading,  stammering, 
urging  I  don't  know  what.  ...  But  she  held  me  back  with 
a  quiet  look,  and  went.  I  had  ordered  the  carriage,  as  she 
[230] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

asked  me  to;  and  my  last  definite  recollection  is  of  watch 
ing  her  drive  off  in  the  rain. . . . 

"I  had  her  promise  that  she  would  see  me,  two  days 
later,  at  her  house  in  town,  and  that  we  should  then  have 
what  I  called  *a  decisive  talk';  but  I  don't  think  that 
even  at  the  moment  I  was  the  dupe  of  my  phrase.  I  knew, 
and  she  knew,  that  the  end  had  come. . .  . 


"  T  T  was  about   that  time  (Merrick  went  on  after  a 
•*•  long  pause)   that    I  definitely    decided  not  to  sell 
the  Works,  but  to  stick  to  my  job  and  conform  my  life 
to  it. 

"I  can't  describe  to  you  the  rage  of  conformity  that 
possessed  me.  Poetry,  ideas — all  the  picture-making  proc 
esses  stopped.  A  kind  of  dull  self-discipline  seemed  to 
me  the  only  exercise  worthy  of  a  reflecting  mind.  I  had 
to  justify  my  great  refusal,  and  I  tried  to  do  it  by  plunging 
myself  up  to  the  eyes  into  the  very  conditions  I  had  been 
instinctively  struggling  to  get  away  from.  The  only  pos 
sible  consolation  would  have  been  to  find  in  a  life  of 
business  routine  and  social  submission  such  moral  com 
pensations  as  may  reward  the  citizen  if  they  fail  the  man; 
but  to  attain  to  these  I  should  have  had  to  accept  the  old 
delusion  that  the  social  and  the  individual  man  are  two. 
Now,  on  the  contrary,  I  found  soon  enough  that  I  couldn't 
[231] 


THE    LONG     RUN 

get  one  part  of  my  machinery  to  work  effectively  while 
another  wanted  feeding:  and  that  in  rejecting  what  had 
seemed  to  me  a  negation  of  action  I  had  made  all  my 
action  negative. 

"The  best  solution,  of  course,  would  have  been  to  fall 
in  love  with  another  woman;  but  it  was  long  before  I 
could  bring  myself  to  wish  that  this  might  happen  to 
me.  .  .  .  Then,  at  length,  I  suddenly  and  violently  desired 
it;  and  as  such  impulses  are  seldom  without  some  kind 
of  imperfect  issue  I  contrived,  a  year  or  two  later,  to  work 
myself  up  into  the  wished-for  state.  .  .  .  She  was  a  woman 
in  society,  and  with  all  the  awe  of  that  institution  that 
Paulina  lacked.  Our  relation  was  consequently  one  of 
those  unavowed  affairs  in  which  triviality  is  the  only 
alternative  to  tragedy.  Luckily  we  had,  on  both  sides, 
risked  only  as  much  as  prudent  people  stake  in  a  drawing- 
room  game;  and  when  the  match  was  over  I  take  it  that 
we  came  out  fairly  even. 

"My  gain,  at  all  events,  was  of  an  unexpected  kind. 
The  adventure  had  served  only  to  make  me  understand 
Paulina's  abhorrence  of  such  experiments,  and  at  every 
turn  of  the  slight  intrigue  I  had  felt  how  exasperating 
and  belittling  such  a  relation  was  bound  to  be  between 
two  people  who,  had  they  been  free,  would  have  mated 
openly.  And  so  from  a  brief  phase  of  imperfect  forgetting 
I  was  driven  back  to  a  deeper  and  more  understanding 
remembrance.  .  . . 

[232] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

"This  second  incarnation  of  Paulina  was  one  of  the 
strangest  episodes  of  the  whole  strange  experience. 
Things  she  had  said  during  our  extraordinary  talk,  things 
I  had  hardly  heard  at  the  time,  came  back  to  me  with 
singular  vividness  and  a  fuller  meaning.  I  hadn't  any 
longer  the  cold  consolation  of  believing  in  my  own  per 
spicacity:  I  saw  that  her  insight  had  been  deeper  and 
keener  than  mine. 

"I  remember,  in  particular,  starting  up  in  bed  one 
sleepless  night  as  there  flashed  into  my  head  the  mean 
ing  of  her  last  words:  *  There  was  no  other  way';  the 
phrase  I  had  half-smiled  at  at  the  time,  as  a  parrot-like 
echo  of  the  novel-heroine's  stock  farewell.  I  had  never, 
up  to  that  moment,  wholly  understood  why  Paulina  had 
come  to  my  house  that  night.  I  had  never  been  able  to 
make  that  particular  act — which  could  hardly,  in  the 
light  of  her  subsequent  conduct,  be  dismissed  as  a  blind 
surge  of  passion — square  with  my  conception  of  her 
character.  She  was  at  once  the  most  spontaneous  and  the 
steadiest-minded  woman  I  had  ever  known,  and  the  last 
to  wish  to  owe  any  advantage  to  surprise,  to  unprepared- 
ness,  to  any  play  on  the  spring  of  sex.  The  better  I  came, 
retrospect!  v«ly,  to  know  her,  the  more  sure  I  was  of  this, 
and  the  less  intelligible  her  act  appeared.  And  then,  sud 
denly,  after  a  night  of  hungry  restless  thinking,  the  flash 
of  enlightenment  came.  She  had  come  to  my  house,  had 
brought  her  trunk  with  her,  had  thrown  herself  at  my 
[  233  ] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

head  with  all  possible  violence  and  publicity,  in  order  to 
give  me  a  pretext,  a  loophole,  an  honourable  excuse,  for 
doing  and  saying — why,  precisely  what  I  had  said  and 
done! 

"As  the  idea  came  to  me  it  was  as  if  some  ironic  hand 
had  touched  an  electric  button,  and  all  my  fatuous 
phrases  had  leapt  out  on  me  in  fire. 

"Of  course  she  had  known  all  along  just  the  kind  of 
thing  I  should  say  if  I  didn't  at  once  open  my  arms  to 
her;  and  to  save  my  pride,  my  dignity,  my  conception 
of  the  figure  I  was  cutting  in  her  eyes,  she  had  recklessly 
and  magnificently  provided  me  with  the  decentest  pre 
text  a  man  could  have  for  doing  a  pusillanimous  thing. .  .  . 

"With  that  discovery  the  whole  case  took  a  different 
aspect.  It  hurt  less  to  think  of  Paulina — and  yet  it  hurt 
more.  The  tinge  of  bitterness,  of  doubt,  in  my  thoughts 
of  her  had  had  a  tonic  quality.  It  was  harder  to  go  on 
persuading  myself  that  I  had  done  right  as,  bit  by  bit, 
my  theories  crumbled  under  the  test  of  time.  Yet,  after 
all,  as  she  herself  had  said,  one  could  judge  of  results 
only  in  the  long  run.  . . . 

"The  Trants  stayed  away  for  two  years;  and  about  a 
year  after  they  got  back,  you  may  remember,  Trant 
was  killed  in  a  railway  accident.  You  know  Fate's  way 
of  untying  a  knot  after  everybody  has  given  up  tugging 
at  it! 

"Well — there  I  was,  completely  justified:  all  my  weak- 
[234] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

nesses  turned  into  merits!  I  had  'saved'  a  weak  woman 
from  herself,  I  had  kept  her  to  the  path  of  duty,  I  had 
spared  her  the  humiliation  of  scandal  and  the  misery  of 
self-reproach;  and  now  I  had  only  to  put  out  my  hand 
and  take  my  reward. 

"I  had  avoided  Paulina  since  her  return,  and  she  had 
made  no  effort  to  see  me.  But  after  Trant's  death  I  wrote 
her  a  few  lines,  to  which  she  sent  a  friendly  answer;  and 
when  a  decent  interval  had  elapsed,  and  I  asked  if  I 
might  call  on  her,  she  answered  at  once  that  she  would 
see  me. 

"I  went  to  her  house  with  the  fixed  intention  of  asking 
her  to  marry  me — and  I  left  it  without  having  done  so. 
Why  ?  I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you.  Perhaps  you  would 
have  had  to  sit  there  opposite  her,  knowing  what  I  did 
and  feeling  as  I  did,  to  understand  why.  She  was  kind, 
she  was  compassionate — I  could  see  she  didn't  want  to 
make  it  hard  for  me.  Perhaps  she  even  wanted  to  make 
it  easy.  But  there,  between  us,  was  the  memory  of  the 
gesture  I  hadn't  made,  forever  parodying  the  one  I  was 
attempting!  There  wasn't  a  word  I  could  think  of  that 
hadn't  an  echo  in  it  of  words  of  hers  I  had  been  deaf  to; 
there  wasn't  an  appeal  I  could  make  that  didn't  mock 
the  appeal  I  had  rejected.  I  sat  there  and  talked  of  her 
husband's  death,  of  her  plans,  of  my  sympathy;  and  I 
knew  she  understood;  and  knowing  that,  in  a  way,  made 
it  harder.  .  .  .  The  door-bell  rang  and  the  footman  came 
[235] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

in  to  ask  if  she  would  receive  other  visitors.  She  looked 
at  me  a  moment  and  said  'Yes,'  and  I  got  up  and  shook 
hands  and  went  away. 

"A  few  days  later  she  sailed  for  Europe,  and  the  next 
time  we  met  she  had  married  Reardon.  . 


VI 


FT  was  long  past  midnight,  and  the  terrier's  hints  be- 
came  imperious. 

Merrick  rose  from  his  chair,  pushed  back  a  fallen  log 
and  put  up  the  fender.  He  walked  across  the  room  and 
stared  a  moment  at  the  Brangwyn  etching  before  which 
Paulina  Trant  had  paused  at  a  memorable  turn  of  their 
talk.  Then  he  came  back  and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"She  summed  it  all  up,  you  know,  when  she  said  that 
one  way  of  finding  out  whether  a  risk  is  worth  taking  is 
not  to  take  it,  and  then  to  see  what  one  becomes  in  the 
long  run,  and  draw  one's  inferences.  The  long  run — well, 
we've  run  it,  she  and  I.  I  know  what  I've  become,  but 
that's  nothing  to  the  misery  of  knowing  what  she's  be 
come.  She  had  to  have  some  kind  of  life,  and  she  married 
Reardon.  Reardon's  a  very  good  fellow  in  his  way;  but 
the  worst  of  it  is  that  it's  not  her  way. . . . 

"No:  the  worst  of  it  is  that  now  she  and  I  meet  as 
friends.  We  dine  at  the  same  houses,  we  talk  about  the 
same  people,  we  play  bridge  together,  and  I  lend  her 
[236] 


THE    LONG    RUN 

books.  And  sometimes  Reardon  slaps  me  on  the  back  and 
says:  'Come  in  and  dine  with  us,  old  man!  What  you 
want  is  to  be  cheered  up!'  And  I  go  and  dine  with  them, 
and  he  tells  me  how  jolly  comfortable  she  makes  him, 
and  what  an  ass  I  am  not  to  marry;  and  she  presses  on 
me  a  second  helping  of  poulet  Maryland,  and  I  smoke  one 
of  Reardon 's  cigars,  and  at  half -past  ten  I  get  into  my 
overcoat,  and  walk  back  alone  to  my  rooms.  . . ." 


[2371 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 
I 

IT  was  clear  that  the  sleigh  from  Weymore  had  not 
come;  and  the  shivering  young  traveller  from  Bos 
ton,  who  had  counted  on  jumping  into  it  when  he 
left    the   train  at    Northridge   Junction,   found    himself 
standing  alone  on  the  open  platform,   exposed  to  the 
full  assault  of  night-fall  and  winter. 

The  blast  that  swept  him  came  off  New  Hampshire 
snow-fields  and  ice-hung  forests.  It  seemed  to  have  trav 
ersed  interminable  leagues  of  frozen  silence,  filling  them 
with  the  same  cold  roar  and  sharpening  its  edge  against 
the  same  bitter  black-and-white  landscape.  Dark,  search 
ing  and  sword-like,  it  alternately  muffled  and  harried  its 
victim,  like  a  bull-fighter  now  whirling  his  cloak  and  now 
planting  his  darts.  This  analogy  brought  home  to  the 
young  man  the  fact  that  he  himself  had  no  cloak,  and 
that  the  overcoat  in  which  he  had  faced  the  relatively 
temperate  air  of  Boston  seemed  no  thicker  than  a  sheet 
of  paper  on  the  bleak  heights  of  Northridge.  George 
Faxon  said  to  himself  that  the  place  was  uncommonly 
well-named.  It  clung  to  an  exposed  ledge  over  the  valley 
from  which  the  train  had  lifted  him,  and  the  wind  combed 
[  241  | 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

it  with  teeth  of  steel  that  he  seemed  actually  to  hear 
scraping  against  the  wooden  sides  of  the  station.  Other 
building  there  was  none:  the  village  lay  far  down  the 
road,  and  thither — since  the  Weymore  sleigh  had  not 
come — Faxon  saw  himself  under  the  necessity  of  plod 
ding  through  several  feet  of  snow. 

He  understood  well  enough  what  had  happened:  his 
hostess  had  forgotten  that  he  was  coming.  Young  as 
Faxon  was,  this  sad  lucidity  of  soul  had  been  acquired  as 
the  result  of  long  experience,  and  he  knew  that  the  vis 
itors  who  can  least  afford  to  hire  a  carriage  are  almost 
always  those  whom  their  hosts  forget  to  send  for.  Yet  to 
say  that  Mrs.  Culme  had  forgotten  him  was  too  crude  a 
way  of  putting  it.  Similar  incidents  led  him  to  think  that 
she  had  probably  told  her  maid  to  tell  the  butler  to  tele 
phone  the  coachman  to  tell  one  of  the  grooms  (if  no  one 
else  needed  him)  to  drive  over  to  Northridge  to  fetch  the 
new  secretary;  but  on  a  night  like  this,  what  groom  who 
respected  his  rights  would  fail  to  forget  the  order? 

Faxon's  obvious  course  was  to  struggle  through  the 
drifts  to  the  village,  and  there  rout  out  a  sleigh  to  convey 
him  to  Weymore;  but  what  if,  on  his  arrival  at  Mrs. 
Culme's,  no  one  remembered  to  ask  him  what  this  devo 
tion  to  duty  had  cost?  That,  again,  was  one  of  the  con 
tingencies  he  had  expensively  learned  to  look  out  for,  and 
the  perspicacity  so  acquired  told  him  it  would  be  cheaper 
to  spend  the  night  at  the  Northridge  inn,  and  advise 
[  242  ] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Mrs.  Culme  of  his  presence  there  by  telephone.  He  had 
reached  this  decision,  and  was  about  to  entrust  his  lug 
gage  to  a  vague  man  with  a  lantern,  when  his  hopes  were 
raised  by  the  sound  of  bells. 

Two  sleighs  were  just  dashing  up  to  the  station,  and 
from  the  foremost  there  sprang  a  young  man  muffled  in 
furs. 

"Weymore? —  No,  these  are  not  the  Weymore  sleighs." 

The  voice  was  that  of  the  youth  who  had  jumped  to 
the  platform — a  voice  so  agreeable  that,  in  spite  of  the 
words,  it  fell  consolingly  on  Faxon's  ears.  At  the  same 
moment  the  wandering  station-lantern,  casting  a  tran 
sient  light  on  the  speaker,  showed  his  features  to  be  in 
the  pleasantest  harmony  with  his  voice.  He  was  very  fair 
and  very  young — hardly  in  the  twenties,  Faxon  thought 
—but  his  face,  though  full  of  a  morning  freshness,  was  a 
trifle  too  thin  and  fine-drawn,  as  though  a  vivid  spirit 
contended  in  him  with  a  strain  of  physical  weakness. 
Faxon  was  perhaps  the  quicker  to  notice  such  delicacies 
of  balance  because  his  own  temperament  hung  on  lightly 
quivering  nerves,  which  yet,  as  he  believed,  would  never 
quite  swing  him  beyond  a  normal  sensibility. 

"You  expected  a  sleigh  from  Weymore?"  the  new 
comer  continued,  standing  beside  Faxon  like  a  slender 
column  of  fur. 

Mrs.  Culme's  secretary  explained  his  difficulty,  and  the 
other  brushed  it  aside  with  a  contemptuous  "Oh,  Mrs. 
[243] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Calmer'  that  carried  both  speakers  a  long  way  toward 
reciprocal  understanding. 

"But  then  you  must  be — "  The  youth  broke  off  with 
a  srnile  of  interrogation. 

"The  new  secretary?  Yes.  But  apparently  there  are 
no  notes  to  be  answered  this  evening."  Faxon's  laugh 
deepened  the  sense  of  solidarity  which  had  so  promptly 
established  itself  between  the  two. 

His  friend  laughed  also.  "Mrs.  Culme,"  he  explained, 
"was  lunching  at  my  uncle's  to-day,  and  she  said  you 
were  due  this  evening.  But  seven  hours  is  a  long  time  for 
Mrs.  Culme  to  remember  anything." 

"Well,"  said  Faxon  philosophically,  "I  suppose  that's 
one  of  the  reasons  why  she  needs  a  secretary.  And  I've 
always  the  inn  at  Northridge,"  he  concluded. 

"Oh,  but  you  haven't,  though!  It  burned  down  last 
week." 

"The  deuce  it  did!"  said  Faxon;  but  the  humour  of 
the  situation  struck  him  before  its  inconvenience.  His  life, 
for  years  past,  had  been  mainly  a  succession  of  resigned 
adaptations,  and  he  had  learned,  before  dealing  practically 
with  his  embarrassments,  to  extract  from  most  of  them  a 
small  tribute  of  amusement. 

"Oh,  well,  there's  sure  to  be  somebody  in  the  place 
who  can  put  me  up." 

"No  one  you  could  put  up  with.  Besides,  Northridge 
is  three  miles  off,  and  our  place — in  the  opposite  direction 
[  24-1  ] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

— is  a  little  nearer."  Through  the  darkness,  Faxon  saw 
his  friend  sketch  a  gesture  of  self-introduction.  "My 
name's  Frank  Rainer,  and  I'm  staying  with  my  uncle  at 
Overdale.  I've  driven  over  to  meet  two  friends  of  his, 
who  are  due  in  a  few  minutes  from  New  York.  If  you  don't 
mind  waiting  till  they  arrive  I'm  sure  Overdale  can  do 
you  better  than  Northridge.  We're  only  down  from  town 
for  a  few  days,  but  the  house  is  always  ready  for  a  lot  of 
people." 

"But  your  uncle — ?"  Faxon  could  only  object,  with 
the  odd  sense,  through  his  embarrassment,  that  it  would 
be  magically  dispelled  by  his  invisible  friend's  next  words. 

"Oh,  my  uncle — you'll  see!  I  answer  for  him!  I  dare 
say  you've  heard  of  him — John  Lavington?" 

John  Lavington!  There  was  a  certain  irony  in  asking 
if  one  had  heard  of  John  Lavington !  Even  from  a  post  of 
observation  as  obscure  as  that  of  Mrs.  Culme'«  secretary  | 
the  rumour  of  John  Lavington's  money,  of  his  pictures,  [ 
his  politics,  his  charities  and  his  hospitality,  was  as  diffi 
cult  to  escape  as  the  roar  of  a  cataract  in  a  mountain 
solitude.  It  might  almost  have  been  said  that  tne  one  ! 
place  in  which  one  would  not  have  expected  to  come  upon  / 
him  was  in  just  such  a  solitude  as  now  surrounded  the 
speakers — at  least  hi  this  deepest  hour  of  its  deserted- , 
ness.  But  it  was  just  like  Lavington's  brilliant  ubiquity 
to  put  one  in  the  wrong  even  there. 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  heard  of  your  uncle." 
[245] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

"Then  you  will  come,  won't  you?  We've  only  five  min 
utes  to  wait,"  young  Rainer  urged,  in  the  tone  that  dis 
pels  scruples  by  ignoring  them;  and  Faxon  found  himself 
accepting  the  invitation  as  simply  as  it  was  offered. 

A  delay  in  the  arrival  of  the  New  York  train  length 
ened  their  five  minutes  to  fifteen;  and  as  they  paced  the 
icy  platform  Faxon  began  to  see  why  it  had  seemed  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  accede  to  his  new 
acquaintance's  suggestion.  It  was  because  Frank  Rainer 
was  one  of  the  privileged  beings  who  simplify  human  in 
tercourse  by  the  atmosphere  of  confidence  and  good  hu 
mour  they  diffuse.  He  produced  this  effect,  Faxon  noted, 
by  the  exercise  of  no  gift  but  his  youth,  and  of  no  art  but 
his  sincerity;  and  these  qualities  were  revealed  in  a  smile 
of  such  sweetness  that  Faxon  felt,  as  never  before,  what 
Nature  can  achieve  when  she  deigns  to  match  the  face 
with  the  mind. 

He  learned  that  the  young  man  was  the  ward,  and  the 
only  nephew,  of  John  Lavington,  with  whom  he  had 
made  his  home  since  the  death  of  his  mother,  the  great 
man's  sister.  Mr.  Lavington,  Rainer  said,  had  been  "a 
regular  brick"  to  him — "But  then  he  is  to  every  one, 
you  know" — and  the  young  fellow's  situation  seemed  in 
fact  to  be  perfectly  in  keeping  with  his  person.  Appar 
ently  the  only  shade  that  had  ever  rested  on  him  was 
cast  by  the  physical  weakness  which  Faxon  had  already 
detected.  Young  Rainer  had  been  threatened  with  tuber- 
[  240  j 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

culosis,  and  the  disease  was  so  far  advanced  that,  accord 
ing  to  the  highest  authorities,  banishment  Lo  Arizona  or 
New  Mexico  was  inevitable.  "But  luckily  my  uncle  didn't 
pack  me  off,  as  most  people  would  have  done,  without 
getting  another  opinion.  Whose?  Oh,  an  awfully  clever 
chap,  a  young  doctor  with  a  lot  of  new  ideas,  who  simply 
laughed  at  my  being  sent  away,  and  said  I'd  do  perfectly 
well  in  New  York  if  I  didn't  dine  out  too  much,  and  if  I 
dashed  off  occasionally  to  Northridge  for  a  little  fresh 
air.  So  it's  really  my  uncle's  doing  that  I'm  not  in  exile 
— and  I  feel  no  end  better  since  the  new  chap  told  me  I 
needn't  bother."  Young  Rainer  went  on  to  confess  that 
he  was  extremely  fond  of  dining  out,  dancing  and  similar 
distractions;  and  Faxon,  listening  to  him,  was  inclined 
to  think  that  the  physician  who  had  refused  to  cut  him 
off  altogether  from  these  pleasures  was  probably  a  better 
psychologist  than  his  seniors. 

"All  the  same  you  ought  to  be  careful,  you  know." 
The  sense  of  elder-brotherly  concern  that  forced  the 
words  from  Faxon  made  him,  as  he  spoke,  slip  his  arm 
through  Frank  Rainer's. 

The  latter  met  the  movement  with  a  responsive  pres- 
.  smx.  "Oh,  I  am:  awfully,  awfully.  And   then  my  uncle 
has  such  an  eye  on  me !" 

"But  it  your  uncle  has  such  an  eye  on  you,  what  does 
he  say  to  your  swallowing  knives  out  here  in  this  Siberian 
wild?" 

[247] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Rainer  raised  bis  fur  collar  with  a  careless  gesture. 
"It's  not  that  that  does  it — the  cold's  good  for  me." 

"And  it's  not  the  dinners  and  dances?  What  is  it, 
then?"  Faxon  good-humouredly  insisted;  to  which  his 
companion  answered  with  a  laugh:  "Well,  my  uncle  says 
it's  being  bored;  and  I  rather  think  he's  right!" 

His  laugh  ended  in  a  spasm  of  coughing  and  a  strug 
gle  for  breath  that  made  Faxon,  still  holding  his  arm, 
guide  him  hastily  into  the  shelter  of  the  fireless  waiting- 
room. 

Young  Hauler  had  dropped  down  on  the  bench  against 
the  wall  and  pulled  off  one  of  his  fur  gloves  to  grope  for 
a  handkerchief.  He  tossed  aside  his  cap  and  drew  the 
handkerchief  across  his  forehead,  which  was  intensely 
white,  and  beaded  with  moisture,  though  his  face  retained 
a  healthy  glow.  But  Faxon's  gaze  remained  fastened  to 
the  hand  he  had  uncovered:  it  was  so  long,  so  colourless, 
so  wasted,  so  much  older  than  the  brow  he  passed  it  over. 

"It's  queer — a  healthy  face  but  dying  hands,"  the  sec 
retary  mused:  he  somehow  wished  young  Rainer  had 
kept  on  his  glove. 

The  whistle  of  the  express  drew  the  young  men  to  their 
feet,  and  the  next  moment  two  heavily-furred  gentlemen 
had  descended  to  the  platform  and  were  breasting  the 
rigour  of  the  night.  Frank  Rainer  introduced  them  as 
Mr.  Grisben  and  Mr.  Balch,  and  Faxon,  while  their  lug 
gage  was  being  lifted  into  the  second  sleigh,  discerned 
[248] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

them,  by  the  roving  lantern-gleam,  to  be  an  elderly  grey 
headed  pair,  of  the  average  prosperous  business  cut. 

They  saluted  their  host's  nephew  with  friendly  fa 
miliarity,  and  Mr.  Grisben,  who  seemed  the  spokesman 
of  the  two,  ended  his  greeting  with  a  genial — "and  many 
many  more  of  them,  dear  boy !"  which  suggested  to  Faxon 
that  their  arrival  coincided  with  an  anniversary.  But  he 
could  not  press  the  enquiry,  for  the  seat  allotted  him  was 
at  the  coachman's  side,  while  Frank  Rainer  joined  his 
uncle's  guests  inside  the  sleigh. 

A  swift  flight  (behind  such  horses  as  one  could  be  sure 
of  John  Lavington's  having)  brought  them  to  tall  gate 
posts,  an  illuminated  lodge,  and  an  avenue  on  which  the 
snow  had  been  levelled  to  the  smoothness  of  marble. 
At  the  end  of  the  avenue  the  long  house  loomed  up,  its 
principal  bulk  dark,  but  one  wing  sending  out  a  ray  of 
welcome;  and  the  next  moment  Faxon  was  receiving  a 
violent  impression  of  warmth  and  light,  of  hot-house 
plants,  hurrying  servants,  a  vast  spectacular  oak  hall 
like  a  stage-setting,  and,  in  its  unreal  middle  distance,  a 
small  figure,  correctly  dressed,  conventionally  featured, 
and  utterly  unlike  his  rather  florid  conception  of  the 
gre^t,  John  Lavington. 

The  surprise  of  the  contrast  remained  with  him  through 

his  hurried  dressing  in  the  large  luxurious  bedroom  to 

which  he  had  been  shown.  "I  don't  see  where  he  comes 

in,"  was  the  only  way  he  could  put  it,  so  difficult  was  it 

[249] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

to  fit  the  exuberance  of  Lavington's  public  personality 
into  his  host's  contracted  frame  and  manner.  Mr.  Laving- 

ton,  to  whom  Faxon's  case  had  been  rapidly  explained 

• 
by  young  Raincr,  had  welcomed  him  with  a  sort  of  dry 

and  stilted  cordiality  that  exactly  matched  his  narrow 
face,  his  stiff  hand,  and  the  whiff  of  scent  on  his  evening 
handkerchief.  "Make  yourself  at  home — at  home!"  he 
had  repeated,  in  a  tone  that  suggested,  on  his  own  part, 
a  complete  inability  to  perform  the  feat  he  urged  on  his 
visitor.  "Any  friend  of  Frank's  .  .  .  delighted  . .  .  make 
yourself  thoroughly  at  home!" 


II 


I"N  spite  of  the  balmy  temperature  and  complicated 
conveniences  of  Faxon's  bedroom,  the  injunction  was 
not  easy  to  obey.  It  was  wonderful  luck  to  have  found  a 
night's  shelter  under  the  opulent  roof  of  Overdale,  and 
he  tasted  the  physical  satisfaction  to  the  full.  But  the 
place,  for  all  its  ingenuities  of  comfort,  was  oddly  cold 
and  unwelcoming.  He  couldn't  have  said  why,  and  could 
only  suppose  that  Mr.  Lavington's  intense  personality — 
intensely  negative,  but  intense  all  the  same — must,  in 
some  occult  way,  have  penetrated  every  corner  of  his 
dwelling.  Perhaps,  though,  it  was  merely  that  Faxon  him 
self  was  tired  and  hungry,  more  deeply  chilled  than  he 
had  known  till  he  came  in  from  the  cold,  and  unutterably 
[250] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

sick  of  all  strange  houses,  and  of  the  prospect  of  per 
petually  treading  other  people's  stairs. 

"I  hope  you're  not  famished?"  Rainer's  slim  figure 
was  in  the  doorway.  "My  uncle  has  a  little  business  to 
attend  to  with  Mr.  Grisben,  and  we  don't  dine  for  half 
an  hour.  Shall  I  fetch  you,  or  can  you  find  your  way  down  ? 
Come  straight  to  the  dining-room — the  second  door  on 
the  left  of  the  long  gallery." 

He  disappeared,  leaving  a  ray  of  warmth  behind  him, 
and  Faxon,  relieved,  lit  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  by  the 
fire. 

Looking  about  with  less  haste,  he  was  struck  by  a  de 
tail  that  had  escaped  him.  The  room  was  full  of  flowers — 
a  mere  "bachelor's  room,"  in  the  wing  of  a  house  opened 
only  for  a  few  days,  in  the  dead  middle  of  a  New  Hamp 
shire  winter!  Flowers  were  everywhere,  not  in  senseless 
profusion,  but  placed  with  the  same  conscious  art  that 
he  had  remarked  in  the  grouping  of  the  blossoming  shrubs 
in  the  hall.  A  vase  of  arums  stood  on  the  writing-table, 
a  cluster  of  strange-hued  carnations  on  the  stand  at  his 
elbow,  and  from  bowls  of  glass  and  porcelain  clumps  of 
freesia-bulbs  diffused  their  melting  fragrance.  The  fact 
implied  acres  of  glass — but  that  was  the  least  interesting 
part  of  it.  The  flowers  themselves,  their  quality,  selection 
and  arrangement,  attested  on  some  one's  part — and  on 
whose  but  John  Lavington's? — a  solicitous  and  sensitive 
passion  for  that  particular  form  of  beauty.  Well,  it  sim- 
[251] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

ply  made  the  man,  as  he  had  appeared  to  Faxon,  all  the 
harder  to  understand ! 

The  half-hour  elapsed,  and  Faxon,  rejoicing  at  the  pros 
pect  of  food,  set  out  to  make  his  way  to  the  dining-room. 
He  had  not  noticed  the  direction  he  had  followed  in  going 
to  his  room,  and  was  puzzled,  when  he  left  it,  to  find  that 
two  staircases,  of  apparently  equal  importance,  invited 
him.  He  chose  the  one  to  his  right,  and  reached,  at  its 
foot,  a  long  gallery  such  as  Rainer  had  described.  The 
gallery  was  empty,  the  doors  down  its  length  were  closed; 
but  Rainer  had  said:  "The  second  to  the  left,"  and  Faxon, 
after  pausing  for  some  chance  enlightenment  which  did 
not  come,  laid  his  hand  on  the  second  knob  to  the 
left. 

The  room  he  entered  was  square,  with  dusky  picture- 
hung  walls.  In  its  centre,  about  a  table  lit  by  veiled  lamps, 
he  fancied  Mr.  Lavington  and  his  guests  to  be  already 
seated  at  dinner;  then  he  perceived  that  the  table  was 
covered  not  with  viands  but  with  papers,  and  that  he  had 
blundered  into  what  seemed  to  be  his  host's  study.  As 
he  paused  Frank  Rainer  looked  up. 

"Oh,  here's  Mr.  Faxon.  Why  not  ask  him — ?" 

Mr.  Lavington,  from  the  end  of  the  table,  reflected  his 
nephew's  smile  in  a  glance  of  impartial  benevolence. 

"Certainly.  Come  in,  Mr.  Faxon.  If  you  won't  think 
it  a  liberty—" 

Mr.  Grisben,  who  sat  opposite  his  host,  turned  his  head 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

toward  the  door.  "Of  course  Mr.  Faxon's  an  American 
citizen  ?  " 

Frank  Rainer  laughed.  "That's  all  right!...  Oh,  no, 
not  one  of  your  pin-pointed  pens,  Uncle  Jack!  Haven't 
you  got  a  quill  somewhere?" 

Mr.  Balch,  who  spoke  slowly  and  as  if  reluctantly,  in 
a  muffled  voice  of  which  there  seemed  to  be  very  little 
left,  raised  his  hand  to  say:  "One  moment:  you  acknowl 
edge  this  to  be — ?" 

"My  last  will  and  testament?"  Rainer's  laugh  re 
doubled.  "Well,  I  won't  answer  for  the  'last.'  It's  the 
first,  anyway." 

"It's  a  mere  formula,"  Mr.  Balch  explained. 

"Well,  here  goes."  Rainer  dipped  his  quill  in  the  ink 
stand  his  uncle  had  pushed  in  his  direction,  and  dashed  a 
gallant  signature  across  the  document. 

Faxon,  understanding  what  was  expected  of  him,  and 
conjecturing  that  the  young  man  was  signing  his  will  on 
the  attainment  of  his  majority,  had  placed  himself  behind 
Mr.  Grisben,  and  stood  awaiting  his  turn  to  affix  his  name 
to  the  instrument.  Rainer,  having  signed,  was  about  to 
push  the  paper  across  the  table  to  Mr.  Balch;  but  the 
latter,  again  raising  his  hand,  said  in  his  sad  imprisoned 
voice:  "The  seal—?" 

"Oh,  does  there  have  to  be  a  seal?" 

Faxon,  looking  over  Mr.  Grisberi  at  John  Lavington, 
saw  a  faint  frown  between  his  impassive  eyes.  "Really, 
[253] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Frank!"  He  seemed,  Faxon  thought,  slightly  irritated 
by  his  nephew's  frivolity. 

"Who's  got  a  seal?"  Frank  Raincr  continued,  glancing 
about  the  table.  "There  doesn't  seem  to  be  one  here." 

Mr.  Grisben  interposed.  "A  wafer  will  do.  Lavington, 
you  have  a  wafer?" 

Mr.  Lavington  had  recovered  his  serenity.  "There 
must  be  some  in  one  of  the  drawers.  But  I'm  ashamed  to 
say  I  don't  know  where  my  secretary  keeps  these  things. 
He  ought  to  have  seen  to  it  that  a  wafer  was  sent  with 
the  document." 

"Oh,  hang  it —  '  Frank  Rainer  pushed  the  paper 
aside:  "It's  the  hand  of  God — and  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
wolf.  Let's  dine  first,  Uncle  Jack." 

"I  think  I've  a  seal  upstairs,"  said  Faxon. 

Mr.  Lavington  sent  him  a  barely  perceptible  smile. 
"So  sorry  to  give  you  the  trouble — 

"Oh,  I  say,  don't  send  him  after  it  now.  Let's  wait  till 
after  dinner!" 

Mr.  Lavington  continued  to  smile  on  his  guest,  and  the 
latter,  as  if  under  the  faint  coercion  of  the  smile,  turned 
from  the  room  and  ran  upstairs.  Having  taken  the  seal 
from  his  writing-case  he  came  down  again,  and  once  more 
opened  the  door  of  the  study.  No  one  was  speaking  when 
he  entered — they  were  evidently  awaiting  his  return  with 
the  mute  impatience  of  hunger,  and  he  put  the  seal  in 
Ramer's  reach,  and  stood  watching  while  Mr.  Grisben 
[2-54] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  one  of  the  candles  flanking 
the  inkstand.  As  the  wax  descended  on  the  paper  Faxon 
remarked  again  the  strange  emaciation,  the  premature 
physical  weariness,  of  the  hand  that  held  it:  he  wondered 
if  Mr.  Lavington  had  ever  noticed  his  nephew's  hand,  and 
if  it  were  not  poignantly  visible  to  him  now. 

With  this  thought  in  his  mind,  Faxon  raised  his  eyes 
to  look  at  Mr.  Lavington.  The  great  man's  gaze  rested 
on  Frank  Rainer  with  an  expression  of  untroubled  benev 
olence;  and  at  the  same  instant  Faxon's  attention  was  at 
tracted  by  the  presence  in  the  room  of  another  person, 
who  must  have  joined  the  group  while  he  was  upstairs 
searching  for  the  seal.  The  new-comer  was  a  man  of  about 
Mr.  Lavington 's  age  and  figure,  who  stood  just  behind 
his  chair,  and  who,  at  the  moment  when  Faxon  first  saw 
him,  was  gazing  at  young  Rainer  with  an  equal  intensity 
of  attention.  The  likeness  between  the  two  men — perhaps 
increased  by  the  fact  that  the  hooded  lamps  on  the  table 
left  the  figure  behind  the  chair  in  shadow — struck  Faxon 
the  more  because  of  the  contrast  in  their  expression.  John 
Lavington,  during  his  nephew's  clumsy  attempt  to  drop 
the  wax  and  apply  the  seal,  continued  to  fasten  on  him 
a  look  of  half-amused  affection;  while  the  man  behind 
the  chair,  so  oddly  reduplicating  the  lines  of  his  features 
and  figure,  turned  on  the  boy  a  face  of  pale  hostility. 

The  impression  was  so  startling  that  Faxon  forgot 
what  was  going  on  about  him.  He  was  just  dimly  aware 
[  255  ] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

of  young  Rainer's  exclaiming:  "Your  turn,  Mr.  Grisben !" 
of  Mr.  Grisben's  protesting:  "No — no;  Mr.  Faxon  first," 
and  of  the  pen's  being  thereupon  transferred  to  his  own 
hand.  He  received  it  with  a  deadly  sense  of  being  unable 
to  move,  or  even  to  understand  what  was  expected  of 
him,  till  he  became  conscious  of  Mr.  Grisben's  paternally 
pointing  out  the  precise  spot  on  which  he  was  to  leave  his 
autograph.  The  effort  to  fix  his  attention  and  steady  his 
hand  prolonged  the  process  of  signing,  and  when  he  stood 
up — a  strange  weight  of  fatigue  on  all  his  limbs — the  figure 
behind  Mr.  Lavington's  chair  was  gone. 

Faxon  felt  an  immediate  sense  of  relief.  It  was  puzzling 
that  the  man's  exit  should  have  been  so  rapid  and  noise 
less,  but  the  door  behind  Mr.  Lavington  was  screened  by 
a  tapestry  hanging,  and  Faxon  concluded  that  the  un 
known  looker-on  had  merely  had  to  raise  it  to  pass  out. 
At  any  rate  he  was  gone,  and  with  his  withdrawal  the 
strange  weight  was  lifted.  Young  Rainer  was  lighting  a 
cigarette,  Mr.  Balch  inscribing  his  name  at  the  foot  of 
the  document,  Mr.  Lavington — his  eyes  no  longer  on  his 
nephew — examining  a  strange  white-winged  orchid  in  the 
vase  at  his  elbow.  Every  thing  suddenly  seemed  to  have 
grown  natural  and  simple  again,  and  Faxon  found  himself 
responding  with  a  smile  to  the  affable  gesture  with  which 
Ins  host  declared:  "And  now,  Mr.  Faxon,  we'll  dine." 


[256] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 


III 


"  T  WONDER  how  I  blundered  into  the  wrong  room 
just  now;  I  thought  you  told  me  to  take  the  second 
door  to  the  left,"  Faxon  said  to  Frank  Rainer  as  they 
followed  the  older  men  down  the  gallery. 

"So  I  did;  but  I  probably  forgot  to  tell  you  which 
staircase  to  take.  Coming  from  your  bedroom,  I  ought  to 
have  said  the  fourth  door  to  the  right.  It's  a  puzzling  house, 
because  my  uncle  keeps  adding  to  it  from  year  to  year. 
He  built  this  room  last  summer  for  his  modern  pictures." 

Young  Rainer,  pausing  to  open  another  door,  touched 
an  electric  button  which  sent  a  circle  of  light  about  the 
walls  of  a  long  room  hung  with  canvases  of  the  French 
impressionist  school. 

Faxon  advanced,  attracted  by  a  shimmering  Monet, 
but  Rainer  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"He  bought  that  last  week.  But  come  along — I'll 
show  you  all  this  after  dinner.  Or  he  will,  rather — he 
loves  it." 

"Does  he  really  love  things?" 

Rainer  stared,  clearly  perplexed  at  the  question. 
"Rather!  Flowers  and  pictures  especially!  Haven't  you 
noticed  the  flowers?  I  suppose  you  think  his  manner's 
cold;  it  seems  so  at  first;  but  he's  really  awfully  keen 
about  things." 

[257] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Faxon  looked  quickly  at  the  speaker.  "Has  your  uncle 
a  brother?" 

"Brother?  No — never  had.  He  and  my  mother  were 
the  only  ones." 

"Or  any  relation  who — who  looks  like  him  ?  Who  might 
be  mistaken  for  him?" 

"Not  that  I  ever  heard  of.  Does  he  remind  you  of  some 
one?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  queer.  We'll  ask  him  if  he's  got  a  double. 
Come  on!" 

But  another  picture  had  arrested  Faxon,  and  some 
minutes  elapsed  before  he  and  his  young  host  reached 
the  dining-room.  It  was  a  large  room,  with  the  same  con 
ventionally  handsome  furniture  and  delicately  grouped 
flowers;  and  Faxon's  first  glance  showed  him  that  only 
three  me£  were  seated  about  the  dining-table.  The  man 
who  had  stood  behind  Mr.  Lavington's  chair  was  not 
present,  and  no  seat  awaited  him. 

When  the  young  men  entered,  Mr.  Grisben  was  speak 
ing,  and  his  host,  who  faced  the  door,  sat  looking  down 
at  his  untouched  soup-plate  and  turning  the  spoon  about 
in  his  small  dry  hand. 

"It's  pretty  late  to  call  them  rumours — they  were 
devilish  close  to  facts  when  we  left  town  this  morning," 
Mr.  Grisben  was  saying,  with  an  unexpected  incisiveness 
of  tone. 

f  2,58  1 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Mr.  Lavington  laid  down  his  spoon  and  smiled  inter 
rogatively.  "Oh,  facts— what  are  facts?  Just  the  way  a 
thing  happens  to  look  at  a  given  minute.  ..." 

"You  haven't  heard  anything  from  town?"  Mr.  Gris- 
ben  persisted. 

"Not  a  syllable.  So  you  see Balch,  a  little  more  of 

that  petite  marmite.  Mr.  Faxon  .  .  .  between  Frank  and 
Mr.  Grisben,  please." 

The  dinner  progressed  through  a  series  of  complicated 
courses,  ceremoniously  dispensed  by  a  prelatical  butler 
attended  by  three  tall  footmen,  and  it  was  evident  that 
Mr.  Lavington  took  a  certain  satisfaction  in  the  pageant. 
That,  Faxon  reflected,  was  probably  the  joint  in  his  ar- 
mour — that  and  the  flowers.  He  had  changed  the  subject 
—not  abruptly  but  firmly— when  the  young  men  entered, 
but  Faxon  perceived  that  it  still  possessed  the  thoughts 
of  the  two  elderly  visitors,  and  Mr.  Balch  presently  ob 
served,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  last  sur 
vivor  down  a  mine-shaft:  "If  it  does  come,  it  will  be  the 
biggest  crash  since  '93." 

Mr.  Lavington  looked  bored  but  polite.  "Wall  Street 
can  stand  crashes  better  than  it  could  then.  It's  got  a 
robuster  constitution." 

"Yes;  but—" 

"Speaking  of  constitutions,"  Mr.  Grisben  intervened: 
"Frank,  are  you  taking  care  of  yourself?" 

A  flush  rose  to  young  Rainer's  cheeks. 
[259] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

"Why,  of  course!  Isn't  that  what  I'm  here  for?" 

"You're  here  about  three  days  in  the  month,  aren't 
you?  And  the  rest  of  the  time  it's  crowded  restaurants 
and  hot  ballrooms  in  town.  I  thought  you  were  to  be 
shipped  off  to  New  Mexico?" 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  new  man  wTho  says  that's  rot." 

"Well,  you  don't  look  as  if  your  new  man  were  right," 
said  Mr.  Grisben  bluntly. 

Faxon  saw  the  lad's  colour  fade,  and  the  rings  of  shadow 
deepen  under  his  gay  eyes.  At  the  same  moment  his  uncle 
turned  to  him  with  a  renewed  intensity  of  attention. 
There  was  such  solicitude  in  Mr.  Lavington's  gaze  that 
it  seemed  almost  to  fling  a  shield  between  his  nephew  and 
Mr.  Grisben's  tactless  scrutiny. 

"We  think  Frank's  a  good  deal  better,"  he  began; 
"this  new  doctor — " 

The  butler,  coming  up,  bent  to  whisper  a  word  in  his 
ear,  and  the  communication  caused  a  sudden  change  in 
Mr.  Lavington's  expression.  His  face  was  naturally  so 
colourless  that  it  seemed  not  so  much  to  pale  as  to  fade, 
to  dwindle  and  recede  into  something  blurred  and  blotted- 
out.  He  half  rose,  sat  down  again  and  sent  a  rigid  smile 
about  the  table. 

"Will  you  excuse  me?  The  telephone.  Peters,  go  on 
with  the  dinner."  With  small  precise  steps  he  walked 
out  of  the  door  which  one  of  the  footmen  had  thrown 
open. 

[260] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

A  momentary  silence  fell  on  the  group;  then  Mr.  Gris- 
ben  once  more  addressed  himself  to  Rainer.  "You  ought 
to  have  gone,  my  boy;  you  ought  to  have  gone." 

The  anxious  look  returned  to  the  youth's  eyes.  "My 
uncle  doesn't  think  so,  really." 

"You're  not  a  baby,  to  be  always  governed  by  your 
uncle's  opinion.  You  came  of  age  to-day,  didn't  you? 
Your  uncle  spoils  you  . . .  that's  what's  the  matter. ..." 

The  thrust  evidently  went  home,  for  Rainer  laughed 
and  looked  down  with  a  slight  accession  of  colour. 

"But  the  doctor—" 

"Use  your  common  sense,  Frank!  You  had  to  try 
twenty  doctors  to  find  one  to  tell  you  what  you  wanted 
to  be  told." 

A  look  of  apprehension  overshadowed  Rainer 's  gaiety. 
"Oh,  come — I  say! .  .  .  What  would  you  do?"  he  stam 
mered. 

"Pack  up  and  jump  on  the  first  train."  Mr.  Grisben 
leaned  forward  and  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  the  young 
man's  arm.  "Look  here:  my  nephew  Jim  Grisben  is  out 
there  ranching  on  a  big  scale.  He'll  take  you  in  and  be 
glad  to  have  you.  You  say  your  new  doctor  thinks  it  won't 
do  you  any  good;  but  he  doesn't  pretend  to  say  it  will 
do  you  harm,  does  he?  Well,  then — give  it  a  trial.  It'll 
take  you  out  of  hot  theatres  and  night  restaurants,  any 
how And  all  the  rest  of  it Eh,  Balch?" 

"Go !"  said  Mr.  Balch  hollowly.  "Go  at  once,"  he  added, 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

as  if  a  closer  look  at  the  youth's  face  had  impressed  on 
him  the  need  of  backing  up  his  friend. 

Young  Rainer  had  turned  ashy-pale.  He  tried  to  stiffen 
his  mouth  into  a  smile.  "Do  I  look  as  bad  as  all  that?" 

Mr.  Grisben  was  helping  himself  to  terrapin.  "You 
look  like  the  day  after  an  earthquake,"  he  said. 

The  terrapin  had  encircled  the  table,  and  been  delib 
erately  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Lavington's  three  visitors  (Rainer, 
Faxon  noticed,  left  his  plate  untouched)  before  the  door 
was  thrown  open  to  re-admit  their  host. 

Mr.  Lavington  advanced  with  an  air  of  recovered  com 
posure.  He  seated  himself,  picked  up  his  napkin  and  con 
sulted  the  gold-inonogrammed  menu.  "No,  don't  bring 
back  the  filet.  .  .  .  Some  terrapin;  yes.  .  .  ."  He  looked 
affably  about  the  table.  "Sorry  to  have  deserted  you, 
but  the  storm  has  played  the  deuce  with  the  wires,  and 
I  had  to  wait  a  long  time  before  I  could  get  a  good  con 
nection.  It  must  be  blowing  up  for  a  blizzard." 

"Uncle  Jack,"  young  Rainer  broke  out,  "Mr.  Gris- 
ben's  been  lecturing  me." 

Mr.  Lavington  was  helping  himself  to  terrapin.  "Ah — 
what  about?" 

"He  thinks  I  ought  to  have  given  New  Mexico  a  show." 

"I  want  him  to  go  straight  out  to  my  nephew  at  Santa 
Paz  and  stay  there  till  his  next  birthday."  Mr.  Lavington 
signed  to  the  butler  to  hand  the  terrapin  to  Mr.  Grisben, 
who,  as  he  took  a  second  helping,  addressed  himself  again 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

to  Raincr.  "Jim's  in  New  York  now,  and  going  back  the 
day  after  tomorrow  in  Olyphant's  private  car.  I'll  ask 
Olyphant  to  squeeze  you  in  if  you'll  go.  Arid  when  you've 
been  out  there  a  week  or  two,  in  the  saddle  all  day  and 
sleeping  nine  hours  a  night,  I  suspect  you  won't  think 
much  of  the  doctor  who  prescribed  New  York." 

Faxon  spoke  up,  he  knew  not  why.  "I  was  out  there 
once:  it's  a  splendid  life.  I  saw  a  fellow — oh,  a  really  bad 
case — who'd  been  simply  made  over  by  it." 

"It  does  sound  jolly,"  Rainer  laughed,  a  sudden  eager 
ness  in  his  tone. 

His  uncle  looked  at  him  gently.  "Perhaps  Grisben's 
right.  It's  an  opportunity — 

Faxon  glanced  up  with  a  start:  the  figure  dimly  per 
ceived  in  the  study  was  now  more  visibly  and  tangibly 
planted  behind  Mr.  Lavington's  chair. 

"That's  right,  Frank:  you  see  your  uncle  approves. 
And  the  trip  out  there  with  Olyphant  isn't  a  thing  to  be 
missed.  So  drop  a  few  dozen  dinners  and  be  at  the  Grand 
Central  the  day  after  tomorrow  at  five." 

Mr.  Grisben's  pleasant  grey  eye  sought  corroboration 
of  his  host,  and  Faxon,  in  a  cold  anguish  of  suspense, 
continued  to  watch  him  as  he  turned  his  glance  on  Mr. 
Lavington.  One  could  not  look  at  Lavington  without  see 
ing  the  presence  at  his  back,  and  it  was  clear  that,  the 
next  minute,  some  change  in  Mr.  Grisben's  expression 
must  give  his  watcher  a  clue. 

[263] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

But  Mr.  Grisben's  expression  did  not  change:  the  gaze 
he  fixed  on  his  host  remained  unperturbed,  and  the  clue 
he  gave  was  the  startling  one  of  not  seeming  to  see  the 
other  figure. 

Faxon's  first  impulse  was  to  look  away,  to  look  any 
where  else,  to  resort  again  to  the  champagne  glass  the 
watchful  butler  had  already  brimmed;  but  some  fatal 
attraction,  at  war  in  him  with  an  overwhelming  physical 
resistance,  held  his  eyes  upon  the  spot  they  feared 

The  figure  was  still  standing,  more  distinctly,  and 
therefore  more  resemblingly,  at  Mr.  Lavington's  back; 
and  while  the  latter  continued  to  gaze  affectionately  at 
his  nephew,  his  counterpart,  as  before,  fixed  young 
Rainer  with  eyes  of  deadly  menace. 

Faxon,  with  what  felt  like  an  actual  wrench  of  the 
muscles,  dragged  his  own  eyes  from  the  sight  to  scan  the 
other  countenances  about  the  table;  but  not  one  revealed 
the  least  consciousness  of  what  he  saw,  and  a  sense  of 
mortal  isolation  sank  upon  him. 

"It's  worth  considering,  certainly — "  he  heard  Mr. 
Lavington  continue;  and  as  Rainer's  face  lit  up,  the  face 
behind  his  uncle's  chair  seemed  to  gather  into  its  look 
all  the  fierce  weariness  of  old  unsatisfied  hates.  That  was 
the  thing  that,  as  the  minutes  laboured  by,  Faxon  was 
becoming  most  conscious  of.  The  watcher  behind  the  chair 
was  no  longer  merely  malevolent :  he  had  grown  suddenly, 
unutterably  tired.  His  hatred  seemed  to  well  up  out  of 
[204] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

the  very  depths  of  balked  effort  and  thwarted  hopes,  and 
the  fact  made  him  more  pitiable,  and  yet  more  dire. 

Faxon's  look  reverted  to  Mr.  Lavington,  as  if  to  sur 
prise  in  him  a  corresponding  change.  At  first  none  was 
visible:  his  pinched  smile  was  screwed  to  his  blank  face 
like  a  gas-light  to  a  white-washed  wall.  Then  the  fixity  of 
the  smile  became  ominous :  Faxon  saw  that  its  wearer  was 
afraid  to  let  it  go.  It  was  evident  that  Mr.  Lavington 
was  unutterably  tired  too,  and  the  discovery  sent  a  colder 
current  through  Faxon's  veins.  Looking  down  at  his  un 
touched  plate,  he  caught  the  soliciting  twinkle  of  the 
champagne  glass;  but  the  sight  of  the  wine  turned  him 
sick. 

"Well,  we'll  go  into  the  details  presently,"  he  heard 
Mr.  Lavington  say,  still  on  the  question  of  his  nephew's 
future.  "Let's  have  a  cigar  first.  No — not  here,  Peters." 
He  turned  his  smile  on  Faxon.  "When  we've  had  coffee 
I  want  to  show  you  my  pictures." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Uncle  Jack — Mr.  Faxon  wants  to 
know  if  you've  got  a  double?" 

"A  double?"  Mr.  Lavington,  still  smiling,  continued 
to  address  "himself  to  his  guest.  "Not  that  I  know  of. 
Have  you  seen  one,  Mr.  Faxon?" 

Faxon  thought:  "My  God,  if  I  look  up  now  they'll 

loth  be  looking  at  me !"  To  avoid  raising  his  eyes  he  made 

as  though  to  lift  the  glass  to  his  lips;  but  his  hand  sank 

inert,   and  he  looked   up.   Mr.   Lavington's   glance  was 

[2G5] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

politely  bent  on  liiin,  but  Math  a  loosening  of  the  strain 
about  his  heart  he  saw  that  the  figure  behind  the  chair 
still  kept  its  gaze  on  Rainer. 

"Do  you  think  you've  seen  my  double,  Mr.  Faxon?" 

Would  the  other  face  turn  if  he  said  yes?  Faxon  felt 
a  dryness  in  his  throat.  "No,"  he  answered. 

"Ah  ?  It's  possible  I've  a  dozen.  I  believe  I'm  extremely 
usual-looking,"  Mr.  Lavington  went  on  conversationally; 
and  still  the  other  face  watched  Rainer. 

"It  was  ...  a  mistake  ...  a  confusion  of  memory.  .  .  ." 
Faxon  heard  himself  stammer.  Mr.  Lavington  pushed  back 
his  chair,  and  as  he  did  so  Mr.  Grisben  suddenly  leaned 
forward. 

"Lavington!  What  have  we  been  thinking  of?  We 
haven't  drunk  Frank's  health!" 

Mr.  Lavington  reseated  himself.  "My  dear  boy! .  .  . 
Peters,  another  bottle.  .  . ."  He  turned  to  his  nephew. 
"After  such  a  sin  of  omission  I  don't  presume  to  propose 
the  toast  myself  . . .  but  Frank  knows.  . .  .  Go  ahead, 
Grisben!" 

The  boy  shone  on  his  uncle.  "No,  no,  Uncle  Jack! 
Mr.  Grisben  won't  mind.  Nobody  but  you — today!" 

The  butler  was  replenishing  the  glasses.  He  filled  Mr. 
Lavington's  last,  and  Mr.  Lavington  put  out  his  small 
hand  to  raise  it.  ...  As  he  did  so,  Faxon  looked  away. 

"Well,  then — All  the  good  I've  wished  you  in  all  the 
past  years.  ...  I  put  it  into  the  prayer  that  the  coming 
[266] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

ones  may  be  healthy  and  happy  and  many  .  .  .  and  many, 
dear  boy!" 

Faxon  saw  the  hands  about  him  reach  out  for  their 
glasses.  Automatically,  he  reached  for  his.  His  eyes  were 
still  on  the  table,  and  he  repeated  to  himself  with  a 
trembling  vehemence:  "I  won't  look  up!  I  won't.... 
I  won't.  .  .  ." 

His  fingers  clasped  the  glass  and  raised  it  to  the  level 
of  his  lips.  He  saw  the  other  hands  making  the  same 
motion.  He  heard  Mr.  Grisben's  genial  "Hear!  Hear!" 
and  Mr.  Balch's  hollow  echo.  He  said  to  himself,  as  the 
rim  of  the  glass  touched  his  lips:  "I  won't  look  up!  I 
swear  I  won't! — "  and  he  looked. 

The  glass  was  so  full  that  it  required  an  extraordinary 
effort  to  hold  it  there,  brimming  and  suspended,  during 
the  awful  interval  before  he  could  trust  his  hand  to  lower 
it  again,  untouched,  to  the  table.  It  was  this  merciful  pre 
occupation  which  saved  him,  kept  him  from  crying  out, 
from  losing  his  hold,  from  slipping  down  into  the  bottom 
less  blackness  that  gaped  for  him.  As  long  as  the  problem 
of  the  glass  engaged  him  he  felt  able  to  keep  his  seat, 
manage  his  muscles,  fit  unnoticeably  into  the  group; 
but  as  the  glass  touched  the  table  his  last  link  with  safety 
snapped.  He  stood  up  and  dashed  out  of  the  room. 


267 


THE    TBIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 


IV 


TN  the  gallery,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  helped 
him  to  turn  back  and  sign  to  young  Rainer  not  to 
follow.  He  stammered  out  something  about  a  touch  of 
dizziness,  and  joining  them  presently;  and  the  boy  nodded 
sympathetically  and  drew  back. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Faxon  ran  against  a  servant. 
"I  should  like  to  telephone  to  Weymore,"  he  said  with 
dry  lips. 

"Sorry,  sir;  wires  all  down.  We've  been  trying  the  last 
hour  to  get  New  York  again  for  Mr.  Lavington." 

Faxon  shot  on  to  his  room,  burst  into  it,  and  bolted  the 
door.  The  lamplight  lay  on  furniture,  flowers,  books;  in 
the  ashes  a  log  still  glimmered.  He  dropped  down  on  the 
sofa  and  hid  his  face.  The  room  was  profoundly  silent,  the 
whole  house  was  still:  nothing  about  him  gave  a  hint  of 
what  was  going  on,  darkly  and  dumbly,  in  the  room  he 
had  flown  from,  and  with  the  covering  of  his  eyes  oblivion 
and  reassurance  seemed  to  fall  on  him.  But  they  fell  for 
a  moment  only;  then  his  lids  opened  again  to  the  mon 
strous  vision.  There  it  was,  stamped  on  his  pupils,  a  part 
of  him  forever,  an  indelible  horror  burnt  into  his  body 
and  brain.  But  why  into  his — just  his  ?  Why  had  he  alone 
been  chosen  to  see  what  he  had  seen  ?  What  business  was 
it  of  his,  in  God's  name  ?  Any  one  of  the  others,  thus  en- 
[268] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

lightened,  might  have  exposed  the  horror  and  defeated 
it;  but  he,  the  one  weaponless  and  defenceless  spectator, 
the  one  whom  none  of  the  others  would  believe  or  under 
stand  if  he  attempted  to  reveal  what  he  knew — he  alone 
had  been  singled  out  as  the  victim  of  this  dreadful  initia 
tion! 

Suddenly  he  sat  up,  listening:  he  had  heard  a  step  on 
the  stairs.  Some  one,  no  doubt,  was  coming  to  see  how  he 
was — to  urge  him,  if  he  felt  better,  to  go  down  and  join 
the  smokers.  Cautiously  he  opened  his  door;  yes,  it  was 
young  Rainer's  step.  Faxon  looked  down  the  passage,  re 
membered  the  other  stairway  and  darted  to  it.  All  he 
wanted  was  to  get  out  of  the  house.  Not  another  instant 
wTould  he  breathe  its  abominable  air !  What  business  was 
it  of  his,  in  God's  name  ? 

He  reached  the  opposite  end  of  the  lower  gallery,  and 
beyond  it  saw  the  hall  by  which  he  had  entered.  It  was 
empty,  and  on  a  long  table  he  recognized  his  coat  and  cap. 
He  got  into  his  coat,  unbolted  the  door,  and  plunged  into 
the  purifying  night. 

The  darkness  was  deep,  and  the  cold  so  intense  that 
for  an  instant  it  stopped  his  breathing.  Then  he  perceived 
that  only  a  thin  snow  was  falling,  and  resolutely  he  set 
his  fage  for  flight.  The  trees  along  the  avenue  marked  his 
way  as  he  hastened  with  long  strides  over  the  beaten 
snow.  Gradually,  while  he  walked,  the  tumult  in  his  brain 
[260] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

subsided.  The  impulse  to  fly  still  drove  him  forward,  but 
he  began  to  feel  that  he  was  flying  from  a  terror  of  his 
own  creating,  and  that  the  most  urgent  reason  for  escape 
was  the  need  of  hiding  his  state,  of  shunning  other  eyes 
till  he  should  regain  his  balance. 

He  had  spent  the  long  hours  in  the  train  in  fruitless 
breedings  on  a  discouraging  situation,  and  he  remembered 
how  his  bitterness  had  turned  to  exasperation  when  he 
found  that  the  Weymore  sleigh  was  not  awaiting  him. 
It  was  absurd,  of  course;  but,  though  he  had  joked  with 
Rainer  over  Mrs.  Culme's  forgetfulness,  to  confess  it 
had  cost  a  pang.  That  was  what  his  rootless  life  had 
brought  him  to:  for  lack  of  a  personal  stake  in  things 
his  sensibility  was  at  the  mercy  of  such  trifles.  .  .  .  Yes; 
that,  and  the  cold  and  fatigue,  the  absence  of  hope  and 
the  haunting  sense  of  starved  aptitudes,  all  these  had 
brought  him  to  the  perilous  verge  over  which,  once  or 
twice  before,  his  terrified  brain  had  hung. 

Why  else,  in  the  name  of  any  imaginable  logic,  human 
or  devilish,  should  he,  a  stranger,  be  singled  out  for  this 
experience?  What  could  it  mean  to  him,  how  was  he  re 
lated  to  it,  what  bearing  had  it  on  his  case  ?  .  .  .  Unless, 
indeed,  it  was  just  because  he  was  a  stranger — a  stranger 
everywhere — because  he  had  no  personal  life,  no  warm 
screen  of  private  egotisms  to  shield  him  from  exposure, 
that  he  had  developed  this  abnormal  sensitiveness  to  the 
vicissitudes  of  others.  The  thought  pulled  him  up  with  a 
[270] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

shudder.  No !  Such  a  fate  was  too  abominable;  all  that 
was  strong  and  sound  in  him  rejected  it.  A  thousand  times 
better  regard  himself  as  ill,  disorganized,  deluded,  than 
as  the  predestined  victim  of  such  warnings ! 

He  reached  the  gates  and  paused  before  the  darkened 
lodge.  The  wind  had  risen  and  was  sweeping  the  snow 
into  his  lace.  The  cold  had  him  in  its  grasp  again,  and 
he  stood  uncertain.  Should  he  put  his  sanity  to  the  test 
and  go  back  ?  He  turned  and  looked  down  the  dark  drive 
to  the  house.  A  single  ray  shone  through  the  trees,  evok 
ing  a  picture  of  the  lights,  the  flowers,  the  faces  grouped 
about  that  fatal  room.  He  turned  and  plunged  out  into 
the  road.  .  .  . 

He  remembered  that,  about  a  mile  from  Overdale,  the 
coachman  had  pointed  out  the  road  to  Northridge;  and 
he  began  to  walk  in  that  direction.  Once  in  the  road  he 
had  the  gale  in  his  face,  and  the  wet  snow  on  his  mous 
tache  and  eye-lashes  instantly  hardened  to  ice.  The  same 
ice  seemed  to  be  driving  a  million  blades  into  his  throat 
and  lungs,  but  he  pushed  on,  the  vision  of  the  warm  room 
pursuing  him. 

The  snow  in  the  road  was  deep  and  uneven.  He  stum 
bled  across  ruts  and  sank  into  drifts,  and  the  wind  drove 
against  him  like  a  granite  cliff.  Now  and  then  he  stopped, 
gasping,  as  if  an  invisible  hand  had  tightened  an  iron 
band  about  his  body;  then  he  started  again,  stiffening 
himself  against  the  stealthy  penetration  of  the  cold.  The 
[271] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

snow  continued  to  descend  out  of  a  pall  of  inscrutable 
darkness,  and  once  or  twice  he  paused,  fearing  he  had 
missed  the  road  to  Northridge;  but,  seeing  no  sign  of  a 
turn,  he  ploughed  on. 

At  last,  feeling  sure  that  he  had  walked  for  more  than 
a  mile,  he  halted  and  looked  back.  The  act  of  turning 
brought  immediate  relief,  first  because  it  put  his  back  to 
the  wind,  and  then  because,  far  down  the  road,  it  showed 
him  the  gleam  of  a  lantern.  A  sleigh  was  coming — a  sleigh 
that  might  perhaps  give  him  a  lift  to  the  village!  Forti 
fied  by  the  hope,  he  began  to  walk  back  toward  the  light. 
It  came  forward  very  slowly,  with  unaccountable  zigzags 
and  waverings;  and  even  when  he  was  within  a  few  yards 
of  it  he  could  catch  no  sound  of  sleigh-bells.  Then  it 
paused  and  became  stationary  by  the  roadside,  as  though 
carried  by  a  pedestrian  who  had  stopped,  exhausted  by 
the  cold.  The  thought  made  Faxon  hasten  on,  and  a 
moment  later  he  was  stooping  over  a  motionless  figure 
huddled  against  the  snow-bank.  The  lantern  had  dropped 
from  its  bearer's  hand,  and  Faxon,  fearfully  raising  it, 
threw  its  light  into  the  face  of  Frank  Rainer. 

"Rainer!  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?" 

The  boy  smiled  back  through  his  pallour.  "What  are 
you,  I'd  like  to  know?"  he  retorted;  and,  scrambling  to 
his  feet  with  a  clutch  on  Faxon's  arm,  he  added  gaily: 
"Well,  Fve  run  you  down!" 

Faxon  stood  confounded,  his  heart  sinking.  The  lad's 
face  was  grey. 

[272] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

"What  madness — "  he  began. 

"Yes,  it  is.  What  on  earth  did  you  do  it  for?" 

"I?  Do  what?  . .  .  Why  I I  was  just  taking  a 

walk.  ...  I  often  walk  at  night.  ..." 

Frank  Rainer  burst  into  a  laugh.  "On  such  nights? 
Then  you  hadn't  bolted?" 

"Bolted?" 

"Because  I'd  done  something  to  offend  you?  My  uncle 
thought  you  had." 

Faxon  grasped  his  arm.  "Did  your  uncle  send  you 
after  me?" 

"Well,  he  gave  me  an  awful  rowing  for  not  going  up 
to  your  room  with  you  when  you  said  you  were  ill.  And 
when  we  found  you'd  gone  we  were  frightened — and  he 
was  awfully  upset — so  I  said  I'd  catch  you.  .  .  .  You're 
not  ill,  are  you?" 

"111?  No.  Never  better."  Faxon  picked  up  the  lantern. 
"Come;  let's  go  back.  It  was  awfully  hot  in  that  dining- 
room." 

"Yes;  I  hoped  it  was  only  that." 

They  trudged  on  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes;  then 
Faxon  questioned:  "You're  not  too  done  up?" 

"Oh,  no.  It's  a  lot  easier  with  the  wind  behind  us." 

"All  right.  Don't  talk  any  more." 

They  pushed  ahead,  walking,  in  spite  of  the  light  that 

guided  them,  more  slowly  than  Faxon  had  walked  alone 

into   the  gale.   The   fact   of  his   companion's   stumbling 

against  a  drift  gave  Faxon  a  pretext  for  saying:  "Take 

[273] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

hold  of  my  arm,"  and  Rainer  obeying,  gasped  out:  "I'm 
blown!" 

"So  am  I.  Who  wouldn't  be?" 

"What  a  dance  you  led  me!  If  it  hadn't  been  for  one 
of  the  servants  happening  to  see  you — 

"Yes;  all  right.  And  now,  won't  you  kindly  shut  up?" 

Rainer  laughed  and  hung  on  him.  "Oh,  the  cold  doesn't 
hurt  me " 

For  the  first  few  minutes  after  Rainer  had  overtaken 
him,  anxiety  for  the  lad  had  been  Faxon's  only  thought. 
But  as  each  labouring  step  carried  them  nearer  to  the  spot 
he  had  been  fleeing,  the  reasons  for  his  flight  grew  more 
ominous  and  more  insistent.  No,  he  was  not  ill,  he  was 
not  distraught  and  deluded — he  was  the  instrument 
singled  out  to  warn  and  save;  and  here  he  was,  irresistibly 
driven,  dragging  the  victim  back  to  his  doom ! 

The  intensity  of  the  conviction  had  almost  checked  his 
steps.  But  what  could  he  do  or  say  ?  At  all  costs  he  must 
get  Rainer  out  of  the  cold,  into  the  house  and  into  his 
bed.  After  that  he  would  act. 

The  snow-fall  was  thickening,  and  as  they  reached  a 
stretch  of  the  road  between  open  fields  the  wind  took 
them  at  an  angle,  lashing  their  faces  with  barbed  thongs. 
Rainer  stopped  to  take  breath,  and  Faxon  felt  the  heavier 
pressure  of  his  arm. 

"When  we  get  to  the  lodge,  can't  we  telephone  to  the 
stable  for  a  sleigh  ? " 

[274] 


THE    TRIUMPH    O_F    NIGHT 

"If  they're  not  all  asleep  at  the  lodge." 

"Oh,  I'll  manage.  Don't  talk!"  Faxon  ordered;  and 
they  plodded  on. .  . 

At  length  the  lantern  ray  showed  ruts  that  curved 
away  from  the  road  under  tree-darkness. 

Faxon's  spirits  rose.  "There's  the  gate!  We'll  be  there 
in  five  minutes." 

As  he  spoke  he  caught,  above  the  boundary  hedge, 
the  gleam  of  a  light  at  the  farther  end  of  the  dark  avenue. 
It  was  the  same  light  that  had  shone  on  the  scene  of 
which  every  detail  was  burnt  into  his  brain;  and  he  felt 
again  its  overpowering  reality.  No — he  couldn't  let  the 
boy  go  back! 

They  were  at  the  lodge  at  last,  and  Faxon  was  hammer 
ing  on  the  door.  He  said  to  himself:  "I'll  get  him  inside 
first,  and  make  them  give  him  a  hot  drink.  Then  I'll  see 
— I'll  find  an  argument.  ..." 

There  was  no  answer  to  his  knocking,  and  after  an 
interval  Rainer  said:  "Look  here — we'd  better  go  on." 

"No!" 

"I  can,  perfectly—" 

"You  sha'n't  go  to  the  house,  I  say !"  Faxon  redoubled 
his  blows,  and  at  length  steps  sounded  on  the  stairs. 
Rainer  was  leaning  against  the  lintel,  and  as  the  door 
opened  the  light  from  the  hall  flashed  on  his  pale  face 
and  fixed  eyes.  Faxon  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  drew 
him  in. 

12751 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

"It  was  cold  out  there,"  he  sighed;  and  then,  abruptly, 
as  if  invisible  shears  at  a  single  stroke  had  cut  every 
muscle  in  his  body,  he  swerved,  drooped  on  Faxon's  arm, 
and  seemed  to  sink  into  nothing  at  his  feet. 

The  lodge-keeper  and  Faxon  bent  over  him,  and  some 
how,  between  them,  lifted  him  into  the  kitchen  and  laid 
him  on  a  sofa  by  the  stove. 

The  lodge-keeper,  stammering:  "I'll  ring  up  the  house," 
dashed  out  of  the  room.  But  Faxon  heard  the  words 
without  heeding  them:  omens  mattered  nothing  now, 
beside  this  woe  fulfilled.  He  knelt  down  to  undo  the  fur 
collar  about  Rainer's  throat,  and  as  he  did  so  he  felt  a 
warm  moisture  on  his  hands.  He  held  them  up,  and  they 
were  red.  .  .  . 


^T^HE  palms  threaded  their  endless  line  along  the  yel- 
•*•  low  river.  The  little  steamer  lay  at  the  wharf,  and 
George  Faxon,  sitting  in  the  verandah  of  the  wooden 
hotel,  idly  watched  the  coolies  carrying  the  freight  across 
the  gang-plank. 

He  had  been  looking  at  such  scenes  for  two  months. 
Nearly  five  had  elapsed  since  he  had  descended  from  the 
train  at  Northridge  and  strained  his  eyes  for  the  sleigh 
that  was  to  take  him  to  Wej^more:  Weymore,  which  he 
was  never  to  behold !  .  .  .  Part  of  the  interval — the  first 
part — was  still  a  great  grey  blur.  Even  now  he  could  not 
[  276  | 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

be  quite  sure  how  he  had  got  back  to  Boston,  reached 
the  house  of  a  cousin,  and  been  thence  transferred  to  a 
quiet  room  looking  out  on  snow  under  bare  trees.  He 
looked  out  a  long  time  at  the  same  scene,  and  finally  one 
day  a  man  he  had  known  at  Harvard  came  to  see  him 
and  invited  him  to  go  out  on  a  business  trip  to  the  Malay 
Peninsula. 

"You've  had  a  bad  shake-up,  and  it'll  do  you  no  end 
of  good  to  get  away  from  things." 

When  the  doctor  came  the  next  day  it  turned  out  that 
he  knew  of  the  plan  and  approved  it.  "You  ought  to  be 
quiet  for  a  year.  Just  loaf  and  look  at  the  landscape,"  he 
advised. 

Faxon  felt  the  first  faint  stirrings  of  curiosity. 

"What's  been  the  matter  with  me,  anyway?" 

"Well,  over- work,  I  suppose.  You  must  have  been 
bottling  up  for  a  bad  breakdown  before  you  started  for 
New  Hampshire  last  December.  And  the  shock  of  that 
poor  boy's  death  did  the  rest." 

Ah,  yes — Rainer  had  died.  He  remembered.  .  .  . 

He  started  for  the  East,  and  gradually,  by  impercepti 
ble  degrees,  life  crept  back  into  his  weary  bones  and 
leaden  brain.  His  friend  was  patient  and  considerate,  and 
they  travelled  slowly  and  talked  little.  At  first  Faxon  had 
fell  a  great  shrinking  from  whatever  touched  on  familiar 
things.  He  seldom  looked  at  a  newspaper  and  he  never 
opened  a  letter  without  a  contraction  of  the  heart.  It  was 
[277] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

not  that  he  had  any  special  cause  for  apprehension,  but 
merely  that  a  great  trail  of  darkness  lay  on  everything. 
He  had  looked  too  deep  down  into  the  abyss.  ...  But 
little  by  little  health  and  energy  returned  to  him,  and 
with  them  the  common  promptings  of  curiosity.  He  was 
beginning  to  wonder  how  the  world  was  going,  and  when, 
presently,  the  hotel-keeper  told  him  there  were  no  letters 
for  him  in  the  steamer's  mail-bag,  he  felt  a  distinct  sense 
of  disappointment.  His  friend  had  gone  into  the  jungle 
on  a  long  excursion,  and  he  was  lonely,  unoccupied  and 
wholesomely  bored.  He  got  up  and  strolled  into  the  stuffy 
reading-room. 

There  he  found  a  game  of  dominoes,  a  mutilated  picture- 
puzzle,  some  copies  of  Zions  Herald  and  a  pile  of  New 
York  and  London  newspapers. 

He  began  to  glance  through  the  papers,  and  was  dis 
appointed  to  find  that  they  were  less  recent  than  he  had 
hoped.  Evidently  the  last  numbers  had  been  carried  off 
by  luckier  travellers.  He  continued  to  turn  them  over, 
picking  out  the  American  ones  first.  These,  as  it  happened, 
were  the  oldest:  they  dated  back  to  December  and  Jan 
uary.  To  Faxon,  however,  they  had  all  the  flavour  of 
novelty,  since  they  covered  the  precise  period  during 
which  he  had  virtually  ceased  to  exist.  It  had  never  be 
fore  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  what  had  happened  in 
the  world  during  that  interval  of  obliteration;  but  now 
he  felt  a  sudden  desire  to  know. 
[278] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

To  prolong  the  pleasure,  he  began  by  sorting  the 
papers  chronologically,  and  as  he  found  and  spread  out 
the  earliest  number,  the  date  at  the  top  of  the  page  en 
tered  into  his  consciousness  like  a  key  slipping  into  a  lock. 
It  was  the  seventeenth  of  December:  the  date  of  the  day 
after  his  arrival  at  Northridge.  He  glanced  at  the  first 
page  and  read  in  blazing  characters:  "Reported  Failure 
of  Opal  Cement  Company.  Lavington's  name  involved. 
Gigantic  Exposure  of  Corruption  Shakes  Wall  Street  to 
Its  Foundations." 

He  read  on,  and  when  he  had  finished  the  first  paper 
he  turned  to  the  next.  There  was  a  gap  of  three  days, 
but  the  Opal  Cement  "Investigation"  still  held  the  centre 
of  the  stage.  From  its  complex  revelations  of  greed  and 
ruin  his  eye  wandered  to  the  death  notices,  and  he  read: 
"Rainer.  Suddenly,  at  Northridge,  New  Hampshire, 
Francis  John,  only  son  of  the  late  ..." 

His  eyes  clouded,  and  he  dropped  the  newspaper  and 
sat  for  a  long  time  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  When  he 
looked  up  again  he  noticed  that  his  gesture  had  pushed 
the  other  papers  from  the  table  and  scattered  them  at 
his  feet.  The  uppermost  lay  spread  out  before  him,  and 
heavily  his  eyes  began  their  search  again.  "John  Laving- 
ton  comes  forward  with  plan  for  reconstructing  Company. 
Offers  ..to  put  in  ten  millions  of  his  own — The  proposal 
under  consideration  by  the  District  Attorney." 

Ten  millions  . . .  ten  millions  of  his  own.  But  if  John 
[270] 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    NIGHT 

Lavington  was  ruined  ?  .  .  .  Faxon  stood  up  with  a  cry. 
That  was  it,  then— that  was  what  tl.e  warning  meant! 
And  if  he  had  not  fled  from  it,  dashed  wildly  away  from 
it  into  the  night,  he  might  have  broken  the  spell  of  in 
iquity,  the  powers  of  darkness  might  not  have  prevailed  ! 
He  caught  up  the  pile  of  newspapers  and  began  to  glance 
through  each  in  turn  for  the  head-line:  "Wills  Admitted 
to  Probate."  In  the  last  of  all  he  found  the  paragraph  he 
sought,  and  it  stared  up  at  him  as  if  with  Rainer's  dying 
eyes. 

That — that  was  what  he  had  done !  The  powers  of  pity 
had  singled  him  out  to  warn  and  save,  and  he  had  closed 
his  ears  to  their  call,  and  washed  his  hands  of  it,  and 
fled.  Washed  his  hands  of  it !  That  was  the  word.  It  caught 
him  back  to  the  dreadful  moment  in  the  lodge  when, 
raising  himself  up  from  Reiner's  side,  he  had  looked  at 
his  hands  and  seen  that  thc,v  were  red.  . . . 


[280] 


THE    CHOICE 


THE    CHOICE 

I 

STILLING,  that  night  after  dinner,  had  surpassed 
himself.  He  always  did,  Wrayford  reflected,  when 
the  small  fry  from  Highfield  came  to  dine.  He, 
Cobham  Stilling,  who  had  to  find  his  bearings  and  keep 
to  his  level  in  the  big  heedless  ironic  world  of  New  York, 
dilated  and  grew  vast  in  the  congenial  medium  of  High- 
field.  The  Red  House  was  the  biggest  house  of  the  High- 
field  summer  colony,  and  Cobham  Stilling  was  its  biggest 
man.  No  one  else  within  a  radius  of  a  hundred  miles  (on 
a  conservative  estimate)  had  as  many  horses,  as  many 
greenhouses,  as  many  servants,  and  assuredly  no  one  else 
had  three  motors  and  a  motor-boat  for  the  lake. 

The  motor-boat  was  Stilling's  latest  hobby,  and  he 
rode — or  steered — it  in  and  out  of  the  conversation  all 
the  evening,  to  the  obvious  edification  of  every  one 
present  save  his  wife  and  his  visitor,  Austin  Wrayford. 
The  interest  of  the  latter  two  who,  from  opposite  ends  of 
the  drawing-room,  exchanged  a  fleeting  glance  when  Still 
ing  again  launched  his  craft  on  the  thin  current  of  the  talk 
—the  interest  of  Mrs.  Stilling  and  Wrayford  had  already 
lost  its  edge  by  protracted  contact  with  the  subject. 

But  the  dinner-guests — the  Rector,  Mr.  Swordsley,  his 
[2831 


THE    CHOICE 

wife  Mrs.  Swordsley,  Lucy  and  Agnes  Granger,  their 
brother  Addison,  and  young  Jack  Emmerton  from  Har 
vard — were  all,  for  divers  reasons,  stirred  to  the  proper 
pitch  of  feeling.  Mr.  Swordsley,  no  doubt,  was  saying  to 
himself:  "If  my  good  parishioner  here  can  afford  to  buy 
a  motor-boat,  in  addition  to  all  the  other  expenditures 
which  an  establishment  like  this  must  entail,  I  certainly 
need  not  scruple  to  appeal  to  him  again  for  a  contribution 
for  our  Galahad  Club."  The  Granger  girls,  meanwhile, 
were  evoking  visions  of  lakeside  picnics,  not  unadorned 
with  the  presence  of  young  Mr.  Emmerton;  while  that 
youth  himself  speculated  as  to  whether  his  affable  host 
would  let  him,  when  he  came  back  on  his  next  vacation, 
"learn  to  run  the  thing  himself";  and  Mr.  Addison  Gran 
ger,  the  elderly  bachelor  brother  of  the  volatile  Lucy  and 
Agnes,  mentally  formulated  the  precise  phrase  in  which, 
in  his  next  letter  to  his  cousin  Professor  Spildyke  of  the 
University  of  East  Latinos,  he  should  allude  to  "our  last 
delightful  trip  in  my  old  friend  Cobhain  Stilling's  ten- 
thousand-dollar  motor-launch" — for  East  Latinos  was 
still  in  that  primitive  stage  of  culture  on  which  five  figures 
impinge. 

Isabel  Stilling,  sitting  beside  Mrs.  Swordsley,  her  head 
slightly  bent  above  the  needlework  with  which  on  these 
occasions  it  was  her  old-fashioned  habit  to  employ  her 
self — Isabel  also  had  doubtless  her  reflections  to  make. 
As  Wrayford  leaned  back  in  his  corner  and  looked  at  her 
[  284  ] 


THE    CHOICE 

across  the  wide  flower-filled  drawing-room  he  noted,  first 
of  all — for  the  how  many  hundredth  time? — the  play  of 
her  hands  above  the  embroidery-frame,  the  shadow  of 
the  thick  dark  hair  on  her  forehead,  the  listless  droops  of 
the  lids  over  her  somewhat  full  grey  eyes.  He  noted  all 
this  with  a  conscious  delibcrateness  of  enjoyment,  taking 
in  unconsciously,  at  the  same  time,  the  particular  quality 
in  her  attitude,  in  the  fall  of  her  dress  and  the  turn  of  her 
head,  which  had  set  her  for  him,  from  the  first  day,  in  a 
separate  world;  then  he  said  to  himself:  "She  is  certainly 
thinking:  'Where  on  earth  will  Cobham  get  the  money 
to  pay  for  it?'" 

Stilling,  cigar  in  mouth  and  thumbs  in  his  waistcpat 
pockets,  was  impressively  perorating  from  his  usual 
dominant  position  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"I  said:  'If  I  have  the  thing  at  all,  I  want  the  best 
that  can  be  got/  That's  my  way,  you  know,  Swordsley; 
I  suppose  I'm  what  you'd  call  fastidious.  Always  was, 
about  everything,  from  cigars  to  worn — "  his  eye  met 
the  apprehensive  glance  of  Mrs.  Swordsley,  who  looked 
like  her  husband  with  his  clerical  coat  cut  slightly  lower 
— "so  I  said:  'If  I  have  the  thing  at  all,  I  want  the  best 
that- can  be  got/  Nothing  makeshift  for  me,  no  second- 
best.  I  never  cared  for  the  cheap  and  showy.  I  always 
say  frankly  to  a  man:  'If  you  can't  give  me  a  first-rate 
cigar,  for  the  Lord's  sake  let  me  smoke  my  own.'"  He 
paused  to  do  so.  "Well,  if  you  have  my  standards,  you 
[285] 


THE    CHOICE 

can't  buy  a  thing  in  a  minute.  You  must  look  round, 
compare,  select.  I  found  there  were  lots  of  motor-boats 
on  the  market,  just  as  there's  lots  of  stuff  called  cham 
pagne.  But  I  said  to  myself:  'Ten  to  one  there's  only  one 
fit  to  buy,  just  as  there's  only  one  champagne  fit  for  a 
gentleman  to  drink.'  Argued  like  a  lawyer,  eh,  Austin?" 
He  tossed  this  to  Wrayford.  "Take  me  for  one  of  your 
own  trade,  wouldn't  you?  Well,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as 
I  look.  I  suppose  you  fellows  who  are  tied  to  the  treadmill 
— excuse  me,  Swordsley,  but  work's  work,  isn't  it? — I 
suppose  you  think  a  man  like  me  has  nothing  to  do  but 
take  it  easy:  loll  through  life  like  a  woman.  By  George, 
sir,  I'd  like  either  of  you  to  see  the  time  it  takes — I  won't 
say  the  brains — but  just  the  time  it  takes  to  pick  out  a 
good  motor-boat.  Why,  I  went — " 

Mrs.  Stilling  set  her  embroidery-frame  noiselessly  on 
the  table  at  her  side,  and  turned  her  head  toward  Wray 
ford.  "Would  you  mind  ringing  for  the  tray?" 

The  interruption  helped  Mrs.  Swordsley  to  waver  to 
her  feet.  "I'm  afraid  we  ought  really  to  be  going;  my  hus 
band  has  an  early  service  to-morrow." 

Her  host  intervened  with  a  genial  protest.  "Going  al 
ready  ?  Nothing  of  the  sort !  Why,  the  night's  still  young, 
as  the  poet  says.  Long  way  from  here  to  the  rectory? 
Nonsense !  In  our  little  twenty-horse  car  we  do  it  in  five 
minutes — don't  we,  Belle?  Ah,  you're  walking,  to  be 
sure — "  Stilling's  indulgent  gesture  seemed  to  concede 
[286] 


THE    CHOICE 

that,  iii  such  a  case,  allowances  must  be  made,  and  that 
he  was  the  last  man  not  to  make  them.  "Well,  then, 
Swordsley — "  He  held  out  a  thick  red  hand  that  seemed 
to  exude  beneficence,  and  the  clergyman,  pressing  it, 
ventured  to  murmur  a  suggestion. 

"What,  that  Galahad  Club  again?  Why,  I  thought  my 
wife — Isabel,  didn't  we —  No?  Well,  it  must  have  been 
my  mother,  then.  Of  course,  you  know,  anything  my  good 
mother  gives  is — well — virtually —  You  haven't  asked 
her?  Sure?  I  could  have  sworn;  I  get  so  many  of  these 
appeals.  And  in  these  times,  you  know,  we  have  to  go 
cautiously.  I'm  sure  you  recognize  that  yourself,  Swords- 
ley.  With  my  obligations — here  now,  to  show  you  don't 
bear  malice,  have  a  brandy  and  soda  before  you  go. 
Nonsense,  man!  This  brandy  isn't  liquor;  it's  liqueur.  I 
picked  it  up  last  year  in  London — last  of  a  famous  lot 
from  Lord  St.  Oswyn's  cellar.  Laid  down  here,  it  stood 
me  at —  Eh?"  he  broke  off  as  his  wife  moved  toward 
him.  "Ah,  yes,  of  course.  Miss  Lucy,  Miss  Agnes — a  drop 
of  soda-water?  Look  here,  Addison,  you  won't  refuse 
my  tipple,  I  know.  Well,  take  a  cigar,  at  any  rate,  Swords- 
ley.  And,  by  the  way,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  go  round 
the  long  way  by  the  avenue  to-night.  Sorry,  Mrs.  Swords- 
ley,  but  I  forgot  to  tell  them  to  leave  the  gate  into  the 
lane  unlocked.  Well,  it's  a  jolly  night,  and  I  daresay  you 
won't  mind  the  extra  turn  along  the  lake.  And,  by  Jove ! 
if  the  moon's  out,  you'll  have  a  glimpse  of  the  motor- 
[287] 


THE    CHOICE 

boat.  She's  moored  just  out  beyond  our  boat-house;  and 
it's  a  privilege  to  look  at  her,  I  can  tell  you !" 

The  dispersal  of  his  guests  carried  Stilling  out  into  the 
hall,  where  his  pleasantries  reverberated  under  the  oak 
rafters  while  the  Granger  girls  were  being  muffled  for  the 
drive  and  the  carriages  summoned  from  the  stables. 

By  a  common  impulse  Mrs.  Stilling  and  Wrayford  had 
moved  together  toward  the  fire-place,  which  was  hidden 
by  a  tall  screen  from  the  door  into  the  hall.  Wrayford 
leaned  his  elbow  against  the  mantel-piece,  and  Mrs. 
Stilling  stood  beside  him,  her  clasped  hands  hanging  down 
before  her. 

"Have  you  anything  more  to  talk  over  with  him?" 
she  asked. 

"No.  We  wound  it  all  up  before  dinner.  He  doesn't 
want  to  talk  about  it  any  more  than  he  can  help." 

"It's  so  bad?" 

"No;  but  this  time  he's  got  to  pull  up." 

She  stood  silent,  with  lowered  lids.  He  listened  a  mo 
ment,  catching  Stilling's  farewell  shout;  then  he  moved 
a  little  nearer,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"In  an  hour?" 

She  made  an  imperceptible  motion  of  assent. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  then.  The  key's  as  usual?" 

She  signed  another  "Yes"  and  walked  away  with  her 
long  drifting  step  as  her  husband  came  in  from  the  hall. 
[288] 


THE    CHOICE 

He  went  up  to  the  tray  and  poured  himself  out  a  tall 
glass  of  brandy  and  soda. 

"The  weather  is  turning  queer — black  as  pitch.  I  hope 
the  Swordsleys  won't  walk  into  the  lake — involuntary 
immersion,  eh?  He'd  come  out  a  Baptist,  I  suppose. 
What'd  the  Bishop  do  in  such  a  case  ?  There's  a  problem 
for  a  lawyer,  my  boy!" 

He  clapped  his  hand  on  Wrayford's  thin  shoulder  and 
then  walked  over  to  his  wife,  who  was  gathering  up  her 
embroidery  silks  and  dropping  them  into  her  work-bag. 
Stilling  took  her  by  the  arms  and  swung  her  playfully 
about  so  that  she  faced  the  lamplight. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  tonight?" 

"The  matter?"  she  echoed,  colouring  a  little,  and 
standing  very  straight  in  her  desire  not  to  appear  to 
shrink  from  his  touch. 

"You  never  opened  your  lips.  Left  me  the  whole  job  of 
entertaining  those  blessed  people.  Didn't  she,  Austin?" 

Wrayford  laughed  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"There!  You  see  even  Austin  noticed  it.  What's  the 
matter,  I  say  ?  Aren't  they  good  enough  for  you  ?  I  don't 
say  they're  particularly  exciting;  but,  hang  it!  I  like  to 
ask  them  here — I  like  to  give  people  pleasure." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  dull,"  said  Isabel. 

"Well,  you  must  learn  to  make  an  effort.  Don't  treat 
people  as  if  they  weren't  in  the  room  just  because  they 
don't  happen  to  amuse  you.  Do  you  know  what  they'll 
[289] 


THE    CHOICE 

think  ?  They'll  think  it's  because  you've  got  a  bigger  house 
and  more  money  than  they  have.  Shall  I  tell  you  some 
thing?  My  mother  said  she'd  noticed  the  same  thing  in 
you  lately.  She  said  she  sometimes  felt  you  looked  down 
on  her  for  living  in  a  small  house.  Oh,  she  was  half  joking, 
of  course;  but  you  see  you  do  give  people  that  impression. 
I  can't  understand  treating  any  one  in  that  way.  The 
more  I  have  myself,  the  more  I  want  to  make  other  peo 
ple  happy." 

Isabel  gently  freed  herself  and  laid  the  work-bag  on  her 
embroidery-frame.  "I  have  a  headache;  perhaps  that 
made  me  stupid.  I'm  going  to  bed."  She  turned  toward 
Wrayford  and  held  out  her  hand.  "Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  he  answered,  opening  the  door  for  her. 

When  he  turned  back  into  the  room,  his  host  was 
pouring  himself  a  third  glass  of  brandy  and  soda. 

"Here,  have  a  nip,  Austin?  Gad,  I  need  it  badly,  after 
the  shaking  up  you  gave  me  this  afternoon."  Stilling 
laughed  and  carried  his  glass  to  the  hearth,  where  he 
took  up  his  usual  commanding  position.  "Why  the  deuce 
don't  you  drink  something  ?  You  look  as  glum  as  Isabel. 
One  would  think  you  were  the  chap  that  had  been  hit 
by  this  business." 

Wrayford  threw  himself  into  the  chair  from  which  Mrs. 
Stilling  had  lately  risen.  It  was  the  one  she  usually  sat 
in,  and  to  his  fancy  a  faint  scent  of  her  clung  to  it.  He 
leaned  back  and  looked  up  at  Stilling. 
[290] 


THE    CHOICE 

"Want  a  cigar?"  the  latter  continued.  "Shall  we  go 
into  the  den  and  smoke?" 

Wrayford  hesitated.  "If  there's  anything  more  you 
want  to  ask  me  about — " 

"Gad,  no!  I  had  full  measure  and  running  over  this 
afternoon.  The  deuce  of  it  is,  I  don't  see  where  the  money's 
all  gone  to.  Luckily  I've  got  plenty  of  nerve;  I'm  not  the 
kind  of  man  to  sit  down  and  snivel  because  I've  been 
touched  in  Wall  Street." 

Wrayford  got  to  his  feet  again.  "Then,  if  you  don't 
want  me,  I  think  I'll  go  up  to  my  room  and  put  some 
finishing  touches  to  a  brief  before  I  turn  in.  I  must  get 
back  to  town  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"All  right,  then."  Stilling  set  down  his  empty  glass, 
and  held  out  his  hand  with  a  tinge  of  alacrity.  "Good 
night,  old  man." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Wrajrford  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"I  say,  Austin — stop  a  minute!"  his  host  called  after 
him.  Wrayford  turned,  and  the  two  men  faced  each 
other  across  the  hearth-rug.  Stilling's  eyes  shifted  uneasily. 

"There's  one  thing  more  you  can  do  for  me  before  you 
leave.  Tell  Isabel  about  that  loan;  explain  to  her  that  she's 
got  to  sign  a  note  for  it." 

Wrayford,  in  his  turn,  flushed  slightly.  "You  want 
me  to  tell  her  ?  " 

"Hang  it!  I'm  soft-hearted — that's  the  worst  of  me." 
[291] 


THE    CHOICE 

Stilling  moved  toward  the  tray,  and  lifted  the  brandy 
decanter.  "And  she'll  take  it  better  from  you;  she'll  have 
to  take  it  from  you.  She's  proud.  You  can  take  her  out 
for  a  row  to-morrow  morning — look  here,  take  her  out 
in  the  motor-launch  if  you  like.  I  meant  to  have  a  spin 
in  it  myself;  but  if  you'll  tell  her — 

Wrayford  hesitated.  "All  right,  I'll  tell  her." 

"Thanks  a  lot,  my  dear  fellow.  And  you'll  make  her 
see  it  wasn't  my  fault,  eh?  Women  are  awfully  vague 
about  money,  and  she'll  think  it's  all  right  if  you  back 
me  up." 

Wrayford  nodded.  "As  you  please." 

"And,  Austin — there's  just  one  more  thing.  You 
needn't  say  anything  to  Isabel  about  the  other  business — 
I  mean  about  my  mother's  securities." 

"Ah?"  said  Wrayford,  pausing. 

Stilling  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  "I'd  rather 
put  that  to  the  old  lady  myself.  I  can  make  it  clear  to 
her.  She  idolizes  me,  you  know — and,  hang  it!  I've  got 
a  good  record.  Up  to  now,  I  mean.  My  mother's  been  in 
clover  since  I  married;  I  may  say  she's  been  my  first 
thought.  And  I  don't  want  her  to  hear  of  this  beastly 
business  from  Isabel.  Isabel's  a  little  harsh  at  times — 
and  of  course  this  isn't  going  to  make  her  any  easier  to 
live  with." 

"Very  well,"  said  Wrayford. 

Stilling,  with  a  look  of  relief,  walked  toward  the  win- 


THE    CHOICE 

dow  which  opened  on  the  terrace.  "Gad!  what  a  queer 
night!  Hot  as  the  kitchen-range.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  we 
had  a  squall  before  morning.  I  wonder  if  that  infernal 
skipper  took  in  the  launch's  awnings  before  he  went 
home." 

Wrayford  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  door.  "Yes,  I 
saw  him  do  it.  She's  shipshape  for  the  night." 

"Good!  That  saves  me  a  run  down  to  the  shore." 

"Good  night,  then,"  said  Wrayford. 

"Good  night,  old  man.  You'll  tell  her?" 

"I'll  tell  her." 

"And  mum  about  my  mother!"  his  host  called  after 
him. 

II 

^  I  ^HE  darkness  had  thinned  a  little  when  Wrayford 
scrambled  down  the  steep  path  to  the  shore. 
Though  the  air  was  heavy  the  threat  of  a  storm  seemed 
to  have  vanished,  and  now  and  then  the  moon's  edge 
showed  above  a  torn  slope  of -cloud. 

But  in  the  thick  shrubbery  about  the  boat-house  the 
darkness  was  still  dense,  and  Wrayford  had  to  strike  a 
match  before  he  could  find  the  lock  and  insert  his  key. 
He  left  the  door  unlatched,  and  groped  his  way  in.  How 
often  he  had  crept  into  this  warm  pine-scented  obscurity, 
guiding  himself  by  the  edge  of  the  bench  along  the  wall, 
and  hearing  the  soft  lap  of  water  through  the  gaps  in 
[293] 


THE    CHOICE 

the  flooring !  He  knew  just  where  one  had  to  duck  one's 
head  to  avoid  the  two  canoes  swung  from  the  rafters,  and 
just  where  to  put  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  farther 
door  that  led  to  the  broad  balcony  above  the  lake. 

The  boat-house  represented  one  of  Stilling's  abandoned 
whiuis.  He  had  built  it  some  seven  years  before,  and  for 
a  time  it  had  been  the  scene  of  incessant  nautical  exploits. 
Stilling  had  rowed,  sailed,  paddled  indefatigably,  and  all 
Highfield  had  been  impressed  to  bear  him  company,  and 
to  admire  his  versatility.  Then  motors  had  come  in,  and 
he  had  forsaken  aquatic  sports  for  the  flying  chariot. 
The  canoes  of  birch-bark  and  canvas  had  been  hoisted 
to  the  roof,  the  sail-boat  had  rotted  at  her  moorings,  and 
the  movable  floor  of  the  boat-house,  ingeniously  contrived 
to  slide  back  on  noiseless  runners,  had  lain  undisturbed 
through  several  seasons.  Even  the  key  of  the  boat-house 
had  been  mislaid — by  Isabel's  fault,  her  husband  said — 
and  the  locksmith  had  to  be  called  in  to  make  a  new  one 
when  the  purchase  of  the  motor-boat  made  the  lake  once 
more  the  centre  of  Stilling's  activity. 

As  Wrayford  entered  he  noticed  that  a  strange  oily 
odor  overpowered  the  usual  scent  of  dry  pine- wood;  and 
at  the  next  step  his  foot  struck  an  object  that  rolled 
noisily  across  the  boards.  He  lighted  another  match,  and 
found  he  had  overturned  a  can  of  grease  which  the  boat 
man  had  no  doubt  been  using  to  oil  the  runners  of  the 
floor. 

[294] 


THE    CHOICE 

Wrayford  felt  his  way  down  the  length  of  the  boat- 
house,  and  softly  opening  the  balcony  door  looked  out 
on  the  lake.  A  few  yards  away,  he  saw  the  launch  lying 
at  anchor  in  the  veiled  moonlight;  and  just  below  him, 
on  the  black  water,  was  the  dim  outline  of  the  skiff  which 
the  boatman  kept  to  paddle  out  to  her.  The  silence  was 
so  intense  that  Wrayford  fancied  he  heard  a  faint  rustling 
in  the  shrubbery  on  the  high  bank  behind  the  boat-house, 
and  the  crackle  of  gravel  on  the  path  descending  to  it. 

He  closed  the  door  again  and  turned  back  into  the  dark 
ness;  and  as  he  did  so  the  other  door,  on  the  land-side, 
swung  inward,  and  he  saw  a  figure  in  the  dim  opening. 
Just  enough  light  entered  through  the  round  holes  above 
the  respective  doors  to  reveal  Mrs.  Stilling's  cloaked  out 
line,  and  to  guide  her  to  him  as  he  advanced.  But  before 
they  met  she  stumbled  and  gave  a  little  cry. 

"What  is  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

"My  foot  caught;  the  floor  seemed  to  give  way  under 
me.  Ah,  of  course — "  she  bent  down  in  the  darkness — 
"I  saw  the. men  oiling  it  this  morning." 

Wrayford  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "Do  take  care!  It 
might  be  dangerous  if  it  slid  too  easily.  The  water's  deep 
under  here." 

"Yes;  the  water's  very  deep.  I  sometimes  wish — " 
She  leaned  against  him  without  finishing  her  sentence, 
and  he  put  both  arms  about  her. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  his  lips  on  hers. 
[295] 


THE    CHOICE 

Suddenly  she  threw  her  head  back  and  seemed  to 
listen. 

"What's  the  matter?  What  do  you  hear?" 

"I  don't  know."  He  felt  her  trembling.  "I'm  not  sure 
this  place  is  as  safe  as  it  used  to  be — 

Wrayford  held  her  to  him  reassuringly.  "But  the  boat 
man  sleeps  down  at  the  village;  and  who  else  should  come 
here  at  this  hour?" 

"Cobham  might.  He  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  launch." 

"He  won't  to-night.  I  told  him  I'd  seen  the  skipper  put 
her  shipshape,  and  that  satisfied  him." 

"Ah— he  did  think  of  coming,  then?" 

"Only  for  a  minute,  when  the  sky  looked  so  black  half 
an  hour  ago,  and  he  was  afraid  of  a  squall.  It's  clearing 
now,  and  there's  no  danger." 

He  drew  her  down  on  the  bench,  and  they  sat  a  moment 
or  two  in  silence,  her  hands  in  his.  Then  she  said:  "You'd 
better  tell  me." 

Wrayford  gave  a  faint  laugh.  "Yes,  I  suppose  I  had. 
In  fact,  he  asked  me  to." 

"He  asked  you  to?" 

"Yes." 

She  uttered  an  exclamation  of  contempt.  "He's  afraid  !" 

Wrayford  made  no  reply,  and  she  went  on:  "I'm  not. 
Tell  me  everything,  please." 

"Well,  he's  chucked  away  a  pretty  big  sum  again — " 

"How?" 

[296] 


THE    CHOICE 

"He  says  he  doesn't  know.  He's  been  speculating,  I 
suppose.  The  madness  of  making  him  your  trustee!" 

She  drew  her  hands  away.  "You  know  why  I  did  it. 
When  we  married  I  didn't  want  to  put  him  in  the  false 
position  of  the  man  who  contributes  nothing  and  accepts 
everything;  I  wanted  people  to  think  the  money  was 
partly  his." 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  made  people  think;  but 
you've  been  eminently  successful  in  one  respect.  He  thinks 
it's  all  his — and  he  loses  it  as  if  it  were." 

"There  are  worse  things.  What  was  it  that  he  wished 
you  to  tell  me?" 

"That  you've  got  to  sign  another  promissory  note — 
for  fifty  thousand  this  time." 

"Is  that  all?" 

Wrayford  hesitated;  then  he  said:  "Yes — for  the 
present." 

She  sat  motionless,  her  head  bent,  her  hand  resting 
passively  in  his. 

He  leaned  nearer.  "What  did  you  mean  just  now,  by 
worse  things  ?  " 

She  hesitated.  "Haven't  you  noticed  that  he's  been 
drinking  a  great  deal  lately?" 

"Yes;  I've  noticed." 

They  were  both  silent;  then  Wrayford  broke  out,  with 
sudden  vehemence:  "And  yet  you  won't — " 

"Won't?" 

[297] 


THE    CHOICE 

"Put  an  end  to  it.  Good  God !  Save  what's  left  of  your 
life." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  in  the  stillness  the  throb  of 
the  water  underneath  them  sounded  like  the  beat  of  u 
tormented  heart. 

"Isabel—"  Wrayford  murmured.  He  bent  over  to  kiss 
her.  "Isabel !  I  can't  stand  it!  Listen — " 

"No;  no.  I've  thought  of  everything.  There's  the  boy 
— the  boy's  fond  of  him.  He's  not  a  bad  father." 
"Except  in  the  trifling  matter  of  ruining  his  son." 
"And  there's  his  poor  old  mother.  He's  a  good  son,  at 
any  rate;  he'd  never  hurt  her.  And  I  know  her.  If  I  left 
him,  she'd  never  take  a  penny  of  my  money.  What  she 
has  of  her  own  is  not  enough  to  live  on;  and  how  could 
he  provide  for  her  ?  If  I  put  him  out  of  doors,  I  should  be 
putting  bis  mother  out  too." 

"You  could  arrange  that — there  are  always  ways." 
"Not  for  her!  She's  proud.  And  then  she  believes  in 
him.  Lots  of  people  believe  in  him,  you  know.  It  would 
kill  her  if  she  ever  found  out." 

Wrayford  made  an  impatient  movement.  "It  will  kill 
you  if  you  stay  with  him  to  prevent  her  finding  out." 

She  laid  her  other  hand  on  his.   "Not  while  I  have 
you." 

"ftave  me?  In  this  way?" 
"In  any  way." 
"My  poor  girl— poor  child!" 
[298] 


THE    CHOICE 

"Unless  you  grow  tired — unless  your  patience  gives 
out." 

He  was  silent,  and  she  went  on  insistently:  "Don't  you 
suppose  I've  thought  of  that  too — foreseen  it?" 

"Well — and  then?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I've  accepted  that  too." 

He  dropped  her  hands  with  a  despairing  gesture. 
"Then,  indeed,  I  waste  my  breath!" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  time  they  sat  silent 
again,  a  little  between  them.  At  length  he  asked:  "You're 
not  crying  ?  " 

"No." 

"I  can't  see  your  face,  it's  grown  so  dark." 

"Yes.  The  storm  must  be  coming."  She  made  a  motion 
as  if  to  rise. 

He  drew  close  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  "Don't 
leave  me  yet.  You  know  I  must  go  to-morrow."  He  broke 
off  with  a  laugh.  "I'm  to  break  the  news  to  you  to-morrow 
morning,  by  the  way;  I'm  to  take  you  out  in  the  motor- 
launch  and  break  it  to  you."  He  dropped  her  hands  and 
stood  up.  "Good  God !  How  can  I  go  and  leave  you  here 
with  him?" 

"You've  done  it  often." 

"Yes;  but  each  time  it's  more  damnable.  And  then  I've 
always  liad  a  hope — " 

She  rose  also.  "Give  it  up!  Give  it  up!" 

"You've  none,  then,  yourself?" 
[  299  ] 


THE    CHOICE 

She  was  silent,  drawing  the  folds  of  her  cloak  about 
her. 

"None — none?"  he  insisted. 

He  had  to  bend  his  head  to  hear  her  answer.  "Only 
one ! " 

"What,  my  dearest?  What?" 

"Don't  touch  me!  That  he  may  die!" 

They  drew  apart  again,  hearing  each  other's  quick 
breathing  through  the  darkness. 

"You  wish  that  too?"  he  said. 

"I  wish  it  always — every  day,  every  hour,  every  mo 
ment!"  She  paused,  and  then  let  the  words  break  from 
her.  "You'd  better  know  it;  you'd  better  know  the  worst 
of  me.  I'm  not  the  saint  you  suppose;  the  duty  I  do  is 
poisoned  by  the  thoughts  I  think.  Day  by  day,  hour  by 
hour,  I  wish  him  dead.  When  he  goes  out  I  pray  for  some 
thing  to  happen;  when  he  comes  back  I  say  to  myself: 
'Are  you  here  again?'  When  I  hear  of  people  being  killed 
in  accidents,  I  think:  'Why  wasn't  he  there?'  When  I 
read  the  death-notices  in  the  paper  I  say:  'So-and-so  was 
just  his  age.'  When  I  see  him  taking  such  care  of  his  health 
and  his  diet — as  he  does,  you  know,  except  when  he  gets 
reckless  and  begins  to  drink  too  much — when  I  see  him 
exercising  and  resting,  and  eating  only  certain  things, 
and  weighing  himself,  and  feeling  his  muscles,  and  boast 
ing  that  he  hasn't  gained  a  pound,  I  think  of  the  men 
who  die  from  overwork,  or  who  throw  their  lives  away  for 
[300] 


THE    CHOICE 

some  great  object,  and  I  say  to  myself:  'What  can  kill  a 
man  who  thinks  only  of  himself?'  And  night  after  night 
I  keep  myself  from  going  to  sleep  for  fear  I  may  dream 
that  he's  dead.  When  I  dream  that,  and  wake  and  find 
him  there  it's  worse  than  ever — " 

She  broke  off  with  a  sob,  and  the  loud  lappipag  of  the 
water  under  the  floor  was  like  the  beat  of  a  rebellious 
heart. 

"There,  you  know  the  truth!"  she  said. 

He  answered  after  a  pause:  "People  do  die." 

"Do  they?"  She  laughed.  "Yes — in  happy  marriages !" 

They  were  silent  again,  and  Isabel  turned,  feeling  her 
way  toward  the  door.  As  she  did  so,  the  profound  still 
ness  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  trolling 
out  unsteadily  the  refrain  of  a  music-hall  song. 

The  two  in  the  boat-house  darted  toward  each  other 
with  a  simultaneous  movement,  clutching  hands  as  they 
met. 

"He's  coming!"  Isabel  said. 

Wrayford  disengaged  his  hands, 

"He  may  only  be  out  for  a  turn  before  he  goes  to  bed. 
Wait  a  minute.  I'll  see."  He  felt  his  way  to  the  bench, 
scrambled  up  on  it,  and  stretching  his  body  forward 
managed  to  bring  his  eyes  in  line  with  the  opening  above 
the  door. 

"It's  as  black  as  pitch.  I  can't  see  anything.*' 

The  refrain  rang  out  nearer. 
[301] 


THE    CHOICE 

"Wait!  I  saw  something  twinkle.  There  it  is  again. 
It's  his  cigar.  It's  coming  this  way — down  the  path." 

There  was  a  long  rattle  of  thunder  through  the  stillness. 

"It's  the  storm!"  Isabel  whispered.  "He's  coming  to 
see  about  the  launch." 

Wrayford  dropped  noiselessly  from  the  bench  and  she 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Isn't  there  time  to  get  up  the  path  and  slip  under  the 
shrubbery?" 

"No,  he's  in  the  path  now.  He'll  be  here  in  two  minutes. 
He'll  find  us." 

He  felt  her  hand  tighten  on  his  arm. 

"You  must  go  in  the  skiff,  then.  It's  the  only  way." 

"And  let  him  find  you?  And  hear  my  oars?  Listen — 
there's  something  I  must  say." 

She  flung  her  arms  about  him  and  pressed  her  face  to 
his. 

"Isabel,  just  now  I  didn't  tell  you  everything.  He's 
ruined  his  mother — taken  everything  of  hers  too.  And  he's 
got  to  tell  her;  it  can't  be  kept  from  her." 

She  uttered  an  incredulous  exclamation  and  drew  back. 

"Is  this  the  truth?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?" 

"He  forbade  me.  You  were  not  to  know." 

Close  above  them,  in  the  shrubbery,  Stilling  warbled: 

"Nita,  Juanita, 
Ask  thy  soul  if  we  must  parti" 
[302] 


THE    CHOICE 

Wrayford  held  her  by  both  arms.  "Understand  this — 
if  he  comes  in,  he'll  find  us.  And  if  there's  a  row  you'll 
lose  your  boy." 

She  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  "You — you — you — he'll 
kill  you!"  she  exclaimed. 

Wrayford  laughed  impatiently  and  released  her,  and 
she  stood  shrinking  against  the  wall,  her  hands  pressed 
to  her  breast.  Wrayford  straightened  himself  and  she  felt 
that  he  was  listening  intently.  Then  he  dropped  to  his 
knees  and  laid  his  hands  against  the  boards  of  the  slid 
ing  floor.  It  yielded  at  once,  as  if  with  a  kind  of  evil 
alacrity;  and  at  their  feet  they  saw,  under  the  motionless 
solid  night,  another  darker  night  that  moved  and  shim 
mered.  Wrayford  threw  himself  back  against  the  opposite 
wall,  behind  the  door. 

A  key  rattled  in  the  lock,  and  after  a  moment's  fumbling 
the  door  swung  open.  Wrayford  and  Isabel  saw  a  man's 
black  bulk  against  the  obscurity.  It  moved  a  step,  lurched 
forward,  and  vanished  out  of  sight.  From  the  depths  be 
neath  them  there  came  a  splash  and  a  long  cry. 

"Go!  go!"  Wrayford  cried  out,  feeling  blindly  for 
Isabel  in  the  blackness. 

"Oh — "  she  cried,  wrenching  herself  away  from 
him. 

He  stood  still  a  moment,  as  if  dazed;  then  she  saw  him 
suddenly  plunge  from  her  side,  and  heard  another  splash 
far  down,  and  a  tumult  in  the  beaten  water. 
[  303  ] 


THE    CHOICE 

In  the  darkness  she  cowered  close  to  the  opening,  press 
ing  her  face  over  the  edge,  and  crying  out  the  name  of 
each  of  the  two  men  in  turn.  Suddenly  she  began  to  see: 
the  obscurity  was  less  opaque,  as  if  a  faint  moon-pallor 
diluted  it.  Isabel  vaguely  discerned  the  two  shapes  strug 
gling  in  the  black  pit  below  her;  once  she  saw  the  gleam 
of  a  face.  She  glanced  up  desperately  for  some  means  of 
rescue,  and  caught  sight  of  the  oars  ranged  on  brackets 
against  the  wall.  She  snatched  down  the  nearest,  bent 
over  the  opening,  and  pushed  the  oar  down  into  the  black 
ness,  crying  out  her  husband's  name. 

The  clouds  had  swallowed  the  moon  again,  and  she 
could  see  nothing  below  her;  but  she  still  heard  the  tumult 
in  the  beaten  water. 

"Cobham!  Cobham!"  she  screamed. 

As  if  in  answer,  she  felt  a  mighty  clutch  on  the  oar,  a 
clutch  that  strained  her  arms  to  the  breaking-point  as 
she  tried  to  brace  her  knees  against  the  runners  of  the 
sliding  floor. 

"Hold  on!  Hold  on!  Hold  on!"  a  voice  gasped  out 
from  below;  and  she  held  on,  with  racked  muscles,  with 
bleeding  palms,  with  eyes  straining  from  their  sockets, 
and  a  heart  that  tugged  at  her  as  the  weight  was  tugging 
at  the  oar. 

Suddenly  the  weight  relaxed,  and  the  oar  slipped  up 
through  her  lacerated  hands.  She  felt  a  wet  body  scram 
bling  over  the  edge  of  the  opening,  and  Stilling's  voice, 
[304] 


THE    CHOICE 

raucous  and  strange,  groaned  out,  close  to  her:  "God!  I 
thought  I  was  done  for." 

He  staggered  to  his  knees,  coughing  and  sputtering, 
and  the  water  dripped  on  her  from  his  streaming  clothes. 

She  flung  herself  down,  again,  straining  over  the  pit. 
Not  a  sound  came  up  from  it. 

"Austin!  Austin!  Quick!  Another  oar!"  she  shrieked. 

Stilling  gave  a  cry.  "My  God !  Was  it  Austin  ?  What  in 
hell —  Another  oar?  No,  no;  untie  the  skiff,  I  tell  you. 
But  it's  no  use.  Nothing's  any  use.  I  felt  him  lose  hold  as 
I  came  up." 

After  that  she  was  conscious  of  nothing  till,  hours  later, 
as  it  appeared  to  her,  she  became  dimly  aware  of  her 
husband's  voice,  high,  hysterical  and  important,  ha 
ranguing  a  group  of  scared  lantern-struck  faces  that  had 
sprung  up  mysteriously  about  them  in  the  night. 

"Poor  Austin!  Poor  Wrayford  .  .  .  terrible  loss  to  me 
.  .  .  mysterious  dispensation.  Yes,  I  do  feel  gratitude — 
miraculous  escape — but  I  wish  old  Austin  could  have 
known  that  I  was  saved!" 


305] 


BUNNER   SISTERS 


BUNNER    SISTERS 
I 

IN  the  days  when  New  York's  traffic  moved  at  the 
pace  of  the  drooping  horse-car,  when  society  ap 
plauded  Christine  Nilsson  at  the  Academy  of  Music 
and  basked  in  the  sunsets  of  the  Hudson  River  School 
on  the  walls  of  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  an  in 
conspicuous  shop  with  a  single  show-window  was  inti 
mately  and  favourably  known  to  the  feminine  population 
of  the  quarter  bordering  on  Stuyvesant  Square. 

It  was  a  very  small  shop,  in  a  shabby  basement,  in  a 
side-street  already  doomed  to  decline;  and  from  the  mis 
cellaneous  display  behind  the  window-pane,  and  the 
brevity  of  the  sign  surmounting  it  (merely  "Bunner 
Sisters"  in  blotchy  gold  on  a  black  ground)  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  the  uninitiated  to  guess  the  precise 
nature  of  the  business  carried  on  within.  But  that  was 
of  little  consequence,  since  its  fame  was  so  purely  local 
that  the  customers  on  whom  its  existence  depended  were 
almost  congenitally  aware  of  the  exact  range  of  "goods'* 
to  be  found  at  Bunner  Sisters'. 

The  house  of  which  Bunner  Sisters  had  annexed  the 
basement  was  a  private  dwelling  with  a  brick  front,  green 
[3091 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

shutters  on  weak  hinges,  and  a  dress-maker's  sign  in  the 
window  above  the  shop.  On  each  side  of  its  modest  three 
stories  stood  higher  buildings,  with  fronts  of  brown  stone, 
cracked  and  blistered,  cast-iron  balconies  and  cat-haunted 
grass-patches  behind  twisted  railings.  These  houses  too 
had  once  been  private,  but  now  a  cheap  lunch-room  filled 
the  basement  of  one,  while  the  other  announced  itself, 
above  the  knotty  wistaria  that  clasped  its  central  balcony, 
as  the  Mendoza  Family  Hotel.  It  was  obvious  from  the 
chronic  cluster  of  refuse-barrels  at  its  area-gate  and  the 
blurred  surface  of  its  curtainless  windows,  that  the  fami 
lies  frequenting  the  Mendoza  Hotel  were  not  exacting  in 
their  tastes;  though  they  doubtless  indulged  in  as  much 
fastidiousness  as  they  could  afford  to  pay  for,  and  rather 
more  than  their  landlord  thought  they  had  a  right  to 
express. 

These  three  houses  fairly  exemplified  the  general  char 
acter  of  the  street,  which,  as  it  stretched  eastward,  rapidly 
fell  from  shabbiness  to  squalor,  with  an  increasing  fre 
quency  of  projecting  sign-boards,  and  of  swinging  doors 
that  softly  shut  or  opened  at  the  touch  of  red-nosed  men 
and  pale  little  girls  with  broken  jugs.  The  middle  of  the 
street  was  full  of  irregular  depressions,  well  adapted  to 
retain  the  long  swirls  of  dust  and  straw  and  twisted 
paper  that  the  wind  drove  up  and  down  its  sad  unleaded 
length;  and  toward  the  end  of  the  day,  when  traffic  had 
been  active,  the  fissured  pavement  formed  a  mosaic  of 
[310] 


RUNNER    SISTERS 

coloured  hand-bills,  lids  of  tomato-cans,  old  shoes,  cigar- 
stumps  and  banana  skins,  cemented  together  by  a  layer 
of  mud,  or  veiled  in  a  powdering  of  dust,  as  the  state  of 
the  weather  determined. 

The  sole  refuge  offered  from  the  contemplation  of  this 
depressing  waste  was  the  sight  of  the  Bunner  Sisters' 
window.  Its  panes  were  always  well-washed,  and  though 
their  display  of  artificial  flowers,  bands  of  scalloped  flannel, 
wire  hat-frames,  and  jars  of  home-made  preserves,  had 
the  undefinable  greyish  tinge  of  objects  long  preserved 
in  the  show-case  of  a  museum,  the  window  revealed  a 
background  of  orderly  counters  and  white-washed  walls 
in  pleasant  contrast  to  the  adjoining  dinginess. 

The  Bunner  sisters  were  proud  of  the  neatness  of  their 
shop  and  content  writh  its  humble  prosperity.  It  was  not 
what  they  had  once  imagined  it  would  be,  but  though  it 
presented  but  a  shrunken  image  of  their  earlier  ambi 
tions  it  enabled  them  to  pay  their  rent  and  keep  them 
selves  alive  and  out  of  debt;  and  it  was  long  since  their 
hopes  had  soared  higher. 

Now  and  then,  however,  among  their  greyer  hours 
there  came  one  not  bright  enough  to  be  called  sunny,  but 
rather  of  the  silvery  twilight  hue  which  sometimes  ends 
a  day  of  storm.  It  was  such  an  hour  that  Ann  Eliza,  the 
elder- ef  the  firm,  was  soberly  enjoying  as  she  sat  one 
January  evening  in  the  back  room  which  served  as  bed 
room,  kitchen  and  parlour  to  herself  and  her  sister  Eve- 
[311] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

lina.  In  the  shop  the  blinds  had  been  drawn  down,  the 
counters  cleared  and  the  wares  in  the  window  lightly 
covered  with  an  old  sheet;  but  the  shop-door  remained 
unlocked  till  Evelina,  who  had  taken  a  parcel  to  the 
dyer's,  should  come  back. 

In  the  back  room  a  kettle  bubbled  on  the  stove,  and 
Ann  Eliza  had  laid  a  cloth  over  one  end  of  the  centre 
table,  and  placed  near  the  green-shaded  sewing  lamp 
two  tea-cups,  two  plates,  a  sugar-bowl  and  a  piece  of  pie. 
The  rest  of  the  room  remained  in  a  greenish  shadow  which 
discreetly  veiled  the  outline  of  an  old-fashioned  mahogany 
bedstead  surmounted  by  a  chromo  of  a  young  lady  in  a 
night-gown  who  clung  with  eloquently-rolling  eyes  to  a 
crag  described  in  illuminated  letters  as  the  Rock  of  Ages; 
and  against  the  unshaded  windows  two  rocking-chairs 
and  a  sewing-machine  were  silhouetted  on  the  dusk. 

Ann  Eliza,  her  small  and  habitually  anxious  face 
smoothed  to  unusual  serenity,  and  the  streaks  of  pale 
hair  on  her  veined  temples  shining  glossily  beneath  the 
lamp,  had  seated  herself  at  the  table,  and  was  tying  up, 
with  her  usual  fumbling  deliberation,  a  knotty  object 
wrapped  in  paper.  Now  and  then,  as  she  struggled  with 
the  string,  which  was  too  short,  she  fancied  she  heard 
the  click  of  the  shop-door,  and  paused  to  listen  for  her 
sister;  then,  as  no  one  came,  she  straightened  her  spec 
tacles  and  entered  into  renewed  conflict  with  the  parcel. 
In  honour  of  some  event  of  obvious  importance,  she  had 
[312] 


BUNNERSISTERS 

put  on  her  double-dyed  and  triple-turned  black  silk. 
Age,  while  bestowing  on  this  garment  a  patine  worthy 
of  a  Renaissance  bronze,  had  deprived  it  of  whatever 
curves  the  wearer's  pre-Raphaelite  figure  had  once  been 
able  to  impress  on  it;  but  this  stiffness  of  outline  gave  it 
an  air  of  sacerdotal  state  which  seemed  to  emphasize  the 
importance  of  the  occasion. 

Seen  thus,  in  her  sacramental  black  silk,  a  wisp  of  lace 
turned  over  the  collar  and  fastened  by  a  mosaic  brooch, 
and  her  face  smoothed  into  harmony  with  her  apparel, 
Ann  Eliza  looked  ten  years  younger  than  behind  the 
counter,  in  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day.  It  would  have 
been  as  difficult  to  guess  her  approximate  age  as  that  of 
the  black  silk,  for  she  had  the  same  worn  and  glossy 
aspect  as  her  dress;  but  a  faint  tinge  of  pink  still  lingered 
on  her  cheek-bones,  like  the  reflection  of  sunset  which 
sometimes  colours  the  west  long  after  the  day  is  over. 

When  she  had  tied  the  parcel  to  her  satisfaction,  and 
laid  it  with  furtive  accuracy  just  opposite  her  sister's 
plate,  she  sat  down,  with  an  air  of  obviously-assumed 
indifference,  in  one  of  the  rocking-chairs  near  the  window; 
and  a  moment  later  the  shop-door  opened  and  Evelina 
entered. 

The  younger  Bunner  sister,  who  was  a  little  taller  than 

her  elder,  had  a  more  pronounced  nose,  but  a  weaker 

slope  of  mouth  and  chin.  She  still  permitted  herself  the 

frivolity  of  waving  her  pale  hair,  and  its  tight  little  ridges, 

[313] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

stiff  as  the  tresses  of  an  Assyrian  statue,  were  flattened 
under  a  dotted  veil  which  ended  at  the  tip  of  her  cold- 
reddened  nose.  In  her  scant  jacket  and  skirt  of  black 
cashmere  she  looked  singularly  nipped  and  faded;  but  it 
seemed  possible  that  under  happier  conditions  she  might 
still  warm  into  relative  youth. 

"Why,  Ann  Eliza,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  thin  voice 
pitched  to  chronic  fretfulness,  "what  in  the  world  you 
got  your  best  silk  on  for?" 

Ann  Eliza  had  risen  with  a  blush  that  made  her  steel- 
bowed  spectacles  incongruous. 

"Why,  Evelina,  why  shouldn't  I,  I  sh'ld  like  to  know? 
Ain't  it  your  birthday,  dear?"  She  put  out  her  arms  with 
the  awkwardness  of  habitually  repressed  emotion. 

Evelina,  without  seeming  to  notice  the  gesture,  threw 
back  the  jacket  from  her  narrow  shoulders. 

"Oh,  pshaw,"  she  said,  less  peevishly.  "I  guess  we'd 
better  give  up  birthdays.  Much  as  we  can  do  to  keep 
Christmas  nowadays." 

"You  hadn't  ought er  say  that,  Evelina.  We  ain't  so 
badly  off  as  all  that.  I  guess  you're  cold  and  tired.  Set 
down  while  I  take  the  kettle  off:  it's  right  on  the 
boil." 

She  pushed  Evelina  toward  the  table,  keeping  a  side 
ward  eye  on  her  sister's  listless  movements,  while  her  own 
hands  were  busy  with  the  kettle.  A  moment  later  came  the 
exclamation  for  which  she  waited. 
[314] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Why,  Ann  Eliza!"  Evelina  stood  transfixed  by  the 
sight  of  the  parcel  beside  her  plate. 

Ann  Eliza,  tremulously  engaged  in  filling  the  teapot, 
lifted  a  look  of  hypocritical  surprise. 

"Sakes,  Evelina!  What's  the  matter?" 

The  younger  sister  had  rapidly  untied  the  string,  and 
drawn  from  its  wrappings  a  round  nickel  clock  of  the 
kind  to  be  bought  for  a  dollar-seventy-five. 

"Oh,  Ann  Eliza,  how  could  you?"  She  set  the  clock 
down,  and  the  sisters  exchanged  agitated  glances  across 
the  table. 

"Well,"  the  elder  retorted,  "ain't  it  your  birth 
day?" 

"Yes,  but—" 

"Well,  and  ain't  you  had  to  run  round  the  corner  to 
the  Square  every  morning,  rain  or  shine,  to  see  what  time 
it  was,  ever  since  we  had  to  sell  mother's  watch  last 
July?  Ain't  you,  Evelina?" 

"Yes,  but—" 

"There  ain't  any  buts.  We've  always  wanted  a  clock 
and  now  we've  got  one:  that's  all  there  is  about  it.  Ain't, 
-she  a  beauty,  Evelina?"  Ann  Eliza,  putting  back  the 
"kettte  on  the  stove,  leaned  over  her  sister's  shoulder  to 
puss  an  approving  hand  over  the  circular  rim  of  the 
clock*  "Hear  how  loud  she  ticks.  I  was  afraid  you'd  hear 
her  soon  as  you  come  in." 

"No.  I  wasn't  thinking,"  murmured  Evelina. 
[315] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Well,  ain't  you  glad  now?"  Ann  Eliza  gently  re 
proached  her.  The  rebuke  had  no  acerbity,  for  she  knew 
that  Evelina's  seeming  indifference  was  alive  with  un 
expressed  scruples. 

"I'm  real  glad,  sister;  but  you  hadn't  oughter.  We 
could  have  got  on  well  enough  without." 

"Evelina  Bunner,  just  you  sit  down  to  your  tea.  I 
guess  I  know  what  I'd  oughter  and  what  I'd  hadn't 
oughter  just  as  well  as  you  do— I'm  old  enough!" 

"You're  real  good,  Ann  Eliza;  but  I  know  you've 
given  up  something  you  needed  to  get  me  this  clock." 

"What  do  I  need,  I'd  like  to  know?  Ain't  I  got  a  best 
black  silk?"  the  elder  sister  said  with  a  laugh  full  of 
nervous  pleasure. 

She  poured  out  Evelina's  tea,  adding  some  condensed 
milk  from  the  jug,  and  cutting  for  her  the  largest  slice 
of  pie;  then  she  drew  up  her  own  chair  to  the  table. 

The  two  women  ate  in  silence  for  a  few  moments  be 
fore  Evelina  began  to  speak  again.  "The  clock  is  perfectly 
lovely  and  I  don't  say  it  ain't  a  comfort  to  have  it;  but 
I  hate  to  think  what  it  must  have  cost  you." 

"No,  it  didn't,  neither,"  Ann  Eliza  retorted.  "I  got  it 
dirt  cheap,  if  you  want  to  know.  And  I  paid  for  it  out  of 
a  little  extra  work  I  did  the  other  night  on  the  machine 
for  Mrs.  Hawkins." 

"The  baby-waists?" 

"Yes." 

[316] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"There,  I  knew  it!  You  swore  to  me  you'd  buy  a  new 
pair  of  shoes  with  that  money." 

"Well,  and  s'posin'  I  didn't  want  'em — what  then? 
I've  patched  up  the  old  ones  as  good  as  new — and  I  do 
declare,  Evelina  Bunner,  if  you  ask  me  another  question 
you'll  go  and  spoil  all  my  pleasure." 

"Very  well,  I  won't,"  said  the  younger  sister. 

They  continued  to  eat  without  farther  words.  Evelina 
yielded  to  her  sister's  entreaty  that  she  should  finish  the 
pie,  and  poured  out  a  second  cup  of  tea,  into  which  she 
put  the  last  lump  of  sugar;  and  between  them,  on  the 
table,  the  clock  kept  up  its  sociable  tick. 

"Where'd  you  get  it,  Ann  Eliza?"  asked  Evelina,  fas 
cinated. 

"Where'd  you  s'pose?  Why,  right  round  here,  over 
acrost  the  Square,  in  the  queerest  little  store  you  ever 
laid  eyes  on.  I  saw  it  in  the  window  as  I  was  passing,  and 
I  stepped  right  in  and  asked  how  much  it  was,  and  the 
store-keeper  he  was  real  pleasant  about  it.  He  was  just 
the  nicest  man.  I  guess  he's  a  German.  I  told  him  I  couldn't 
give  much,  and  he  said,  well,  he  knew  what  hard  times 
"was'  too.  His  name's  Ramy — Herman  Ramy:  I  saw  it 
written  up  over  the  store.  And  he  told  me  he  used  to 
work  at  Tiff  ny's,  oh,  for  years,  in  the  clock-department, 
and  three  years  ago  he  took  sick  with  some  kinder  fever, 
and  lost  his  place,  and  when  he  got  well  they'd  engaged 
somebody  else  and  didn't  want  him,  and  so  he  started 
[  317  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

this  little  store  by  himself.  I  guess  he's  real  smart,  and  he 
spoke  quite  like  an  educated  man — but  he  looks  sick." 

Evelina  was  listening  with  absorbed  attention.  In  the 
narrow  lives  of  the  two  sisters  such  an  episode  was  not 
to  be  under-rated. 

"What  you  say  his  name  was?"  she  asked  as  Ann  Eliza 
paused. 

"Herman  Ramy." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Well,  I  couldn't  exactly  tell  you,  he  looked  so  sick- 
but  I  don't  b'lieve  he's  much  over  forty." 

By  this  time  the  plates  had  been  cleared  and  the  tea 
pot  emptied,  and  the  two  sisters  rose  from  the  table. 
Ann  Eliza,  tying  an  apron  over  her  black  silk,  carefully 
removed  all  traces  of  the  meal;  then,  after  washing  the 
cups  and  plates,  and  putting  them  away  in  a  cupboard, 
she  drew  her  rocking-chair  to  the  lamp  and  sat  down  to 
a  heap  of  mending.  Evelina,  meanwhile,  had  been  roam 
ing  about  the  room  in  search  of  an  abiding-place  for  the 
clock.  A  rosewood  what-not  with  ornamental  fret-work 
hung  on  the  wall  beside  the  devout  young  lady  in  dis 
habille,  and  after  much  weighing  of  alternatives  the  sisters 
decided  to  dethrone  a  broken  china  vase  filled  with  dried 
grasses  which  had  long  stood  on  the  top  shelf,  and  to  put 
the  clock  in  its  place;  the  vase,  after  farther  consideration, 
being  relegated  to  a  small  table  covered  with  blue  and 
white  bead-work,  which  held  a  Bible  and  prayer-book, 
[318] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

and  an  illustrated  copy  of  Longfellow's  poems  given  as 
a  school-prize  to  their  father. 

This  change  having  been  made,  and  the  effect  studied 
from  every  angle  of  the  room,  Evelina  languidly  put  her 
pinking-machine  on  the  table,  and  sat  down  to  the  mo 
notonous  work  of  pinking  a  heap  of  black  silk  flounces. 
The  strips  of  stuff  slid  slowly  to  the  floor  at  her  side, 
and  the  clock,  from  its  commanding  altitude,  kept  time 
with  the  dispiriting  click  of  the  instrument  under  her 
fingers. 


II 


'"•  ^HE  purchase  of  Evelina's  clock  had  been  a  more 
•*•  important  event  in  the  life  of  Ann  Eliza  Bunner 
than  her  younger  sister  could  divine.  In  the  first  place, 
there  had  been  the  demoralizing  satisfaction  of  finding 
herself  in  possession  of  a  sum  of  money  which  she  need 
not  put  into  the  common  fund,  but  could  spend  as  she 
chose,  without  consulting  Evelina,  and  then  the  excite 
ment  of  her  stealthy  trips  abroad,  undertaken  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  she  could  trump  up  a  pretext  for  leaving 
the  *hop;  since,  as  a  rule,  it  was  Evelina  who  took  the 
bundles  to  the  dyer's,  and  delivered  the  purchases  of 
those  j among  their  customers  who  were  too  genteel  to  be 
seen  carrying  home  a  bonnet  or  a  bundle  of  pinking — 
so  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  excuse  of  having  to  see 
[319] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Mrs.  Hawkins's  teething  baby,  Ann  Eliza  would  hardly 
have  known  what  motive  to  allege  for  deserting  her  usual 
seat  behind  the  counter. 

The  infrequency  of  her  walks  made  them  the  chief 
events  of  her  life.  The  mere  act  of  going  out  from  the 
monastic  quiet  of  the  shop  into  the  tumult  of  the  streets 
filled  her  with  a  subdued  excitement  which  grew  too  in 
tense  for  pleasure  as  she  was  swallowed  by  the  engulfing 
roar  of  Broadway  or  Third  Avenue,  and  began  to  do  timid 
battle  with  their  incessant  cross-currents  of  humanity. 
After  a  glance  or  two  into  the  great  show-windows  she 
usually  allowed  herself  to  be  swept  back  into  the  shelter 
of  a  side-street,  and  finally  regained  her  own  roof  in  a 
state  of  breathless  bewilderment  and  fatigue;  but  grad 
ually,  as  her  nerves  were  soothed  by  the  familiar  quiet 
of  the  little  shop,  and  the  click  of  Evelina's  pinking- 
machine,  certain  sights  and  sounds  would  detach  them 
selves  from  the  torrent  along  which  she  had  been  swept, 
and  she  would  devote  the  rest  of  the  day  to  a  mental 
reconstruction  of  the  different  episodes  of  her  walk, 
till  finally  it  took  shape  in  her  thought  as  a  consecutive 
and  highly-coloured  experience,  from  which,  for  weeks 
afterwards,  she  would  detach  some  fragmentary  recol 
lection  in  the  course  of  her  long  dialogues  with  her  sister. 

But  when,  to  the  unwonted  excitement  of  going  out, 
was  added  the  intenser  interest  of  looking  for  a  present 
for  Evelina,  Ann  Eliza's  agitation,  sharpened  by  conceal- 
[  320  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

ment,  actually  preyed  upon  her  rest;  and  it  was  not  till 
the  present  had  been  given,  and  she  had  unbosomed 
herself  of  the  experiences  connected  with  its  purchase, 
that  she  could  look  back  with  anything  like  composure 
to  that  stirring  moment  of  her  life.  From  that  day  for 
ward,  however,  she  began  to  take  a  certain  tranquil 
pleasure  in  thinking  of  Mr.  Ramy's  small  shop,  not  unlike 
her  own  in  its  countrified  obscurity,  though  the  layer  of 
dust  which  covered  its  counter  and  shelves  made  the 
comparison  only  superficially  acceptable.  Still,  she  did 
not  judge  the  state  of  the  shop  severely,  for  Mr.  Ramy 
had  told  her  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  lone 
men,  she  was  aware,  did  not  know  how  to  deal  with  dust. 
It  gave  her  a  good  deal  of  occupation  to  wonder  why  he 
had  never  married,  or  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  were  a 
widower,  and  had  lost  all  his  dear  little  children;  and  she 
scarcely  knew  which  alternative  seemed  to  make  him 
tbe  more  interesting.  In  either  case,  his  life  was  assuredly 
a  sad  one;  and  she  passed  many  hours  in  speculating  on 
the  manner  in  w^hich  he  probably  spent  his  evenings. 
She  knew  he  lived  at  the  back  of  lu's  shop,  for  she  had 
caught,  on  entering,  a  glimpse  of  a  dingy  room  with  a 
tumbled  bed;  and  the  pervading  smell  of  cold  fry  sug 
gested  that  he  probably  did  his  own  cooking.  She  won 
dered  if  he  did  not  often  make  his  tea  with  water  that 
had  not  boiled,  and  asked  herself,  almost  jealously,  who 
looked  after  the  shop  while  he  went  to  market.  Then  it 
[321] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

occurred  to  her  as  likely  that  he  bought  his  provisions  at 
the  same  market  as  Evelina;  and  she  was  fascinated  by 
the  thought  that  he  and  her  sister  might  constantly  be 
meeting  in  total  unconsciousness  of  the  link  between 
them.  Whenever  she  reached  this  stage  in  her  reflexions 
she  lifted  a  furtive  glance  to  the  clock,  whose  loud  stac 
cato  tick  was  becoming  a  part  of  her  inmost  being. 

The  seed  sown  by*these  long  hours  of  meditation  ger 
minated  at  last  in  the  secret  wish  to  go  to  market  some 
morning  in  Evelina's  stead.  As  this  purpose  rose  to  the 
surface  of  Ann  Eliza's  thoughts  she  shrank  back  shyly 
from  its  contemplation.  A  plan  so  steeped  in  duplicity 
had  never  before  taken  shape  in  her  crystalline  soul. 
How  was  it  possible  for  her  to  consider  such  a  step  ?  And, 
besides,  (she  did  not  possess  sufficient  logic  to  mark  the 
downward  trend  of  this  "besides"),  what  excuse  could 
she  make  that  would  not  excite  her  sister's  curiosity? 
From  this  second  query  it  was  an  easy  descent  to  the  third: 
how  soon  could  she  manage  to  go? 

It  was  Evelina  herself,  who  furnished  the  necessary 
pretext  by  awaking  with  a  sore  throat  on  the  day  when 
she  usually  went  to  market.  It  was  a  Saturday,  and  as 
they  always  had  their  bit  of  steak  on  Sunday  the  expedi 
tion  could  not  be  postponed,  and  it  seemed  natural  that 
Ann  Eliza,  as  she  tied  an  old  stocking  around  Evelina's 
throat,  should  announce  her  intention  of  stepping  round 
to  the  butcher's. 

[322] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Oh,  Ann  Eliza,  they'll  cheat  you  so,"  her  sister  wailed. 

Ann  Eliza  brushed  aside  the  imputation  with  a  smile, 
and  a  few  minutes  later,  having  set  the  room  to  rights, 
and  cast  a  last  glance  at  the  shop,  she  was  tying  on  her 
bonnet  with  fumbling  haste. 

The  morning  was  damp  and  cold,  with  a  sky  full  of 
sulky  clouds  that  would  not  make  room  for  the  sun, 
but  as  yet  dropped  only  an  occasional  snow-flake.  In  the 
early  light  the  street  looked  its  meanest  and  most  neg 
lected;  but  to  Ann  Eliza,  never  greatly  troubled  by  any 
untidiness  for  which  she  was  not  responsible,  it  seemed  to 
wear  a  singularly  friendly  aspect. 

A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  her  to  the  market  where 
Evelina  made  her  purchases,  and  where,  if  he  had  any 
sense  of  topographical  fitness,  Mr.  Ramy  must  also  deal. 

Ann  Eliza,  making  her  way  through  the  outskirts  of 
potato-barrels  and  flabby  fish,  found  no  one  in  the  shop 
but  the  gory-aproned  butcher  who  stood  in  the  back 
ground  cutting  chops. 

As  she  approached  him  across  the  tessellation  of  fish- 
scales,  blood  and  saw-dust,  he  laid  aside  his  cleaver  and 
not  unsympathetically  asked:  "Sister  sick?" 

"Oh,  not  very — jest  a  cold,"  she  answered,  as  guiltily 
as  if  Evelina's  illness  had  been  feigned.  "  We  want  a  steak 
as  usual,  please — and  my  sister  said  you  was  to  be  sure 
to  give  me  jest  as  good  a  cut  as  if  it  was  her,"  she  added 
with  child-like  candour. 

[323] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Oh,  that's  all  right."  The  butcher  picked  up  his 
weapon  with  a  grin.  "Your  sister  knows  a  cut  as  well  as 
any  of  us,"  he  remarked. 

In  another  moment,  Ann  Eliza  reflected,  the  steak 
would  be  cut  and  wrapped  up,  and  no  choice  left  her  but 
to  turn  her  disappointed  steps  toward  home.  She  was 
too  shy  to  try  to  delay  the  butcher  by  such  conversa 
tional  arts  as  she  possessed,  but  the  approach  of  a  deaf 
old  lady  in  an  antiquated  bonnet  and  mantle  gave  her 
her  opportunity. 

"Wait  on  her  first,  please,"  Ann  Eliza  whispered.  "I 
ain't  in  any  hurry." 

The  butcher  advanced  to  his  new  customer,  and  Ann 
Eliza,  palpitating  in  the  back  of  the  shop,  saw  that  the 
old  lady's  hesitations  between  liver  and  pork  chops  were 
likely  to  be  indefinitely  prolonged.  They  were  still  unre 
solved  when  she  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a 
blowsy  Irish  girl  with  a  basket  on  her  arm.  The  new 
comer  caused  a  momentary  diversion,  and  when  she  had 
departed  the  old  lady,  who  was  evidently  as  intolerant 
of  interruption  as  a  professional  story-teller,  insisted  on 
returning  to  the  beginning  of  her  complicated  order, 
and  weighing  anew,  with  an  anxious  appeal  to  the  butch 
er's  arbitration,  the  relative  advantages  of  pork  and  liver. 
But  even  her  hesitations,  and  the  intrusion  on  them  of 
two  or  three  other  customers,  were  of  no  avail,  for  Mr. 
Ramy  was  not  among  those  who  entered  the  shop;  and 
[324] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

at  last  Ann  Eliza,  ashamed  of  staying  longer,  reluctantly 
claimed  her  steak,  and  walked  home  through  the  thick 
ening  snow. 

Even  to  her  simple  judgment  the  vanity  of  her  hopes 
was  plain,  and  in  the  clear  light  that  disappointment 
turns  upon  our  actions  she  wondered  how  she  could  have 
been  foolish  enough  to  suppose  that,  even  if  Mr.  Ramy 
did  go  to  that  particular  market,  he  would  hit  on  the 
same  day  and  hour  as  herself. 

There  followed  a  colourless  week  unmarked  by  farther 
incident.  The  old  stocking  cured  Evelina's  throat,  and  Mrs. 
Hawkins  dropped  in  once  or  twice  to  talk  of  her  baby's 
teeth;  some  new  orders  for  pinking  were  received,  and 
Evelina  sold  a  bonnet  to  the  lady  with  puffed  sleeves. 
The  lady  with  puffed  sleeves — a  resident  of  "the  Square," 
whose  name  they  had  never  learned,  because  she  always 
carried  her  own  parcels  home — was  the  most  distin 
guished  and  interesting  figure  on  their  horizon.  She  was 
youngish,  she  was  elegant  (as  the  title  they  had  given  her 
implied),  and  she  had  a  sweet  sad  smile  about  which  they 
woven  many  histories;  but  even  the  news  of  her  re 
turn  to  town — it  was  her  first  apparition  that  year — failed 
to  arouse  Ann  Eliza's  interest.  All  the  small  daily  happen 
ings  which  had  once  sufficed  to  fill  the  hours  now  appeared 
to  her  in  their  deadly  insignificance;  and  for  the  first  time 
in  her  long  years  of  drudgery  she  rebelled  at  the  dullness 
[  325  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

of  her  life.  With  Evelina  such  fits  of  discontent  were 
habitual  and  openly  proclaimed,  and  Ann  Eliza  still  ex 
cused  them  as  one  of  the  prerogatives  of  youth.  Besides, 
Evelina  had  not  been  intended  by  Providence  to  pine 
in  such  a  narrow  life:  in  the  original  plan  of  things,  she 
had  been  meant  to  marry  and  have  a  baby,  to  wear  silk 
on  Sundays,  and  take  a  leading  part  in  a  Church  circle. 
Hitherto  opportunity  had  played  her  false;  and  for  all 
her  superior  aspirations  and  carefully  crimped  hair  she 
had  remained  as  obscure  and  unsought  as  Ann  Eliza. 
But  the  elder  sister,  who  had  long  since  accepted  her  own 
fate,  had  never  accepted  Evelina's.  Once  a  pleasant 
young  man  who  taught  in  Sunday-school  had  paid  the 
younger  Miss  Bunner  a  few  shy  visits.  That  was  years 
since,  and  he  had  speedily  vanished  from  their  view. 
Whether  he  had  carried  with  him  any  of  Evelina's  illu 
sions,  Ann  Eliza  had  never  discovered;  but  his  attentions 
had  clad  her  sister  in  a  halo  of  exquisite  possibilities. 

Ann  Eliza,  in  those  days,  had  never  dreamed  of  allow 
ing  herself  the  luxury  of  self-pity;  it  seemed  as  much  a 
personal  right  of  Evelina's  as  her  elaborately  crinkled 
hair.  But  now  she  began  to  transfer  to  herself  a  portion 
of  the  sympathy  she  had  so  long  bestowed  on  Evelina. 
She  had  at  last  recognized  her  right  to  set  up  some  lost 
opportunities  of  her  own;  and  once  that  dangerous  prec 
edent  established,  they  began  to  crowd  upon  her  memory. 

It  was  at  this  stage  of  Ann  Eliza's  transformation  that 
[326] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Evelina,  looking   up  one  evening  from  her  work,  said 
suddenly:  "My!  She's  stopped." 

Ann  Eliza,  raising  her  eyes  from  a  brown  merino  seam, 
followed  her  sister's  glance  across  the  room.  It  was  a 
Monday,  and  they  always  wound  the  clock  on  Sundays. 

"Are  you  sure  you  wound  her  yesterday,  Evelina?" 

"Jest  as  sure  as  I  live.  She  must  be  broke.  I'll  go  and 
see." 

Evelina  laid  down  the  hat  she  was  trimming,  and  took 
the  clock  from  its  shelf. 

"There — I  knew  it!  She's  wound  jest  as  tight — what 
you  suppose's  happened  to  her,  Ann  Eliza?" 

"I  dunno,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  elder  sister,  wiping  her 
spectacles  before  proceeding  to  a  close  examination  of 
the  clock. 

With  anxiously  bent  heads  the  two  women  shook  and 
turned  it,  as  though  they  were  trying  to  revive  a  living 
thing,  but  it  remained  unresponsive  to  their  touch,  and 
at  length  Evelina  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh. 

"Seems  like  somethin'  dead,  don't  it,  Ann  Eliza?  How 
still  the  room  is!" 

"Yes,  ain't  it?" 

"Well,  I'll  put  her  back  where  she  belongs,"  Evelina 
continued,  in  the  tone  of  one  about  to  perform  the  last 
offices  for  the  departed.  "And  I  guess,"  she  added,  "you'll 
have  to  step  round  to  Mr.  Ramy's  to-morrow,  and  see 
if  he  can  fix  her." 

[327] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

i 

Aim  Eliza's  face  burned.  "I — yes,  I  guess  I'll  have  to," 
she  stammered,  stooping  to  pick  up  a  spool  of  cotton 
which  had  rolled  to  the  floor.  A  sudden  heart-throb 
stretched  the  seams  of  her  flat  alpaca  bosom,  and  a  pulse 
leapt  to  life  in  each  of  her  temples. 

That  night,  long  after  Evelina  slept,  Ann  Eliza  lay 
awake  in  the  unfamiliar  silence,  more  acutely  conscious 
of  the  nearness  of  the  crippled  clock  than  when  it  had 
volubly  told  out  the  minutes.  The  next  morning  she  woke 
from  a  troubled  dream  of  having  carried  it  to  Mr.  Ramy's, 
and  found  that  he  and  his  shop  had  vanished;  and  all 
through  the  day's  occupations  the  memory  of  this  dream 
oppressed  her. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  Ann  Eliza  should  take  the 
clock  to  be  repaired  as  soon  as  they  had  dined;  but  while 
11  icy  were  still  at  table  a  weak-eyed  little  girl  in  a  black 
apron  stabbed  with  innumerable  pins  burst  in  on  them 
with  the  cry:  "Oh,  Miss  Bunner,  for  mercy's  sake!  Miss 
Mellins  has  been  took  again." 

Miss  Mellins  was  the  dress-maker  upstairs,  and  the 
weak-eyed  child  one  of  her  youthful  apprentices. 

Ann  Eliza  started  from  her  seat.  "I'll  come  at  once. 
Quick,  Evelina,  the  cordial!" 

By  this  euphemistic  name  the  sisters  designated  a 
bottle  of  cherry  brandy,  the  last  of  a  dozen  inherited  from 
their  grandmother,  which  they  kept  locked  in  their  cup 
board  against  such  emergencies.  A  moment  later,  cordial 
[  328  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

in  hand,  Ann  Eliza  was  hurrying  upstairs  behind  the  weak- 
eyed  child. 

Miss  Mcllins's  "turn"  was  siiflirirnlly  serious  to  delain 
Ann  Eliza  for  nearly  two  hours,  and  dusk  had  fallen  when 
she  took  up  the  depleted  bottle  of  cordial  and  descended 
again  to  the  shop.  It  was  empty,  as  usual,  and  Evelina 
sat  at  her  pinking-maehine  in  the  back  room.  Ann  Eliza 
was  still  agitated  by  her  efforts  to  restore  the  dress 
maker,  but  in  spite  of  her  preoeniptition  she  was  struck, 
as  soon  as  she  entered,  by  the  loud  tick  of  the  clock, 
which  still  stood  on  the  shelf  where  she  had  left  it. 

"Why,  she's  going!"  she  gasped,  before  Evelina  could 
question  her  about  Miss  Mellins.  "Did  she  start  up  again 
by  herself?" 

"Oh,  no;  but  I  couldn't  stand  not  knowing  what  time 
it  was,  I've  got  so  accustomed  to  having  her  round;  and 
just  after  you  went  upstairs  Mrs.  Hawkins  dropped  in, 
so  I  asked  her  to  tend  the  store  for  a  minute,  and  I  clapped 
on  my  things  and  ran  right  round  to  Mr.  Ramy's.  It 
turned  out  there  wasn't  anything  the  matter  with  her— 
nothin'  on'y  a  speck  of  dust  in  the  works—and  he  fixed 
!"•'•  for  MM:  iii  a  minute  and  I  brought  her  right  back. 
Ain't  il  lovely  to  hear  her  going  again?  But  tell  me  about 
Miss  Mellins,  quick!" 

For  a  moment  Ann  Eliza  found  no  words.  Not  till  she 
learned  that  she  had  missed  her  chance  did  she  under 
stand  how  many  hopes  had  hung  upon  it.  Even  now  she 
[  329  j 


B  UNNER    SISTERS 

did  not  know  why  she  had  wanted  so  much  to  see  the 
clock-maker  again. 

"I  s'pose  it's  because  nothing's  ever  happened  to  me," 
she  thought,  with  a  twinge  of  envy  for  the  fate  which  gave 
Evelina  every  opportunity  that  came  their  way.  "She  had 
the  Sunday-school  teacher  too,"  Ann  Eliza  murmured  to 
herself;  but  she  was  well-trained  in  the  arts  of  renuncia 
tion,  and  after  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause  she  plunged 
into  a  detailed  description  of  the  dress-maker's  "turn." 

Evelina,  when  her  curiosity  was  roused,  was  an  insatia 
ble  questioner,  and  it  was  supper-time  before  she  had  come 
to  the  end  of  her  enquiries  about  Miss  Mellins;  but  when 
the  two  sisters  had  seated  themselves  at  their  evening 
meal  Ann  Eliza  at  last  found  a  chance  to  say:  "So  she 
on'y  had  a  speck  of  dust  in  her." 

Evelina  understood  at  once  that  the  reference  was  not 
to  Miss  Mellins.  "Yes — at  least  he  thinks  so,"  she  an 
swered,  helping  herself  as  a  matter  of  course  to  the  first 
cup  of  tea. 

"On'y  to  think!"  murmured  Ann  Eliza. 

"But  he  isn't  sure,"  Evelina  continued,  absently  push 
ing  the  teapot  toward  her  sister.  "It  may  be  something 
wrong  with  the — I  forget  what  he  called  it.  Anyhow,  he 
said  he'd  call  round  and  see,  day  after  to-morrow,  after 
supper." 

"Who  said?"  gasped  Ann  Eliza. 

"Why,  Mr.  Ramy,  of  course.  I  think  he's  real  nice, 
[330] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Ann  Eliaa.  And  I  don't  believe  he's  forty;  but  he  does 
look  sick.  I  guess  he's  pretty  lonesome,  all  by  himself  in 
that  store.  He  as  much  as  told  me  so,  and  somehow" — 
Evelina  paused  and  bridled — "I  kinder  thought  that 
maybe  his  saying  he'd  call  round  about  the  clock  was 
on'y  just  an  excuse.  He  said  it  just  as  I  was  going  out  of 
the  store.  What  you  think,  Ann  Eliza?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  har'ly  know."  To  save  herself,  Ann  Eliza 
could  produce  nothing  warmer. 

"Well,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  smarter  than  other  folks," 
said  Evelina,  putting  a  conscious  hand  to  her  hair,  "but 
I  guess  Mr.  Herman  Ramy  wouldn't  be  sorry  to  pass  an 
evening  here,  'stead  of  spending  it  all  alone  in  that  poky 
little  place  of  his." 

Her  self-consciousness  irritated  Ann  Eliza. 

"I  guess  he's  got  plenty  of  friends  of  his  own,"  she  said, 
almost  harshly. 

"No,  he  ain't,  either.  He's  got  hardly  any." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  too?"  Even  to  her  own  ears 
there  was  a  faint  sneer  in  the  interrogation. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  said  Evelina,  dropping  her  lids  with  a 
„ smile.  "He  seemed  to  Be  just  crazy  to  talk  to  somebody 
— somebody  agreeable,  I  mean.  I  think  the  man's  unhappy, 
Ann  Eliza." 

"£o-<lo  I,"  broke  from  the  elder  sister. 

"He  seems  such  an  educated  man,  too.  He  was  reading 
the  paper  when  I  went  in.  Ain't  it  sad  to  think  of  his 
[331] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

being  reduced  to  that  little  store,  after  being  years  at 
TifFny's,  and  one  of  the  head  men  in  their  clock-depart 
ment?" 

"He  told  you  all  that?" 

"Why,  yes.  I  think  he'd  a'  told  me  everything  ever 
happened  to  him  if  I'd  had  the  time  to  stay  and  listen. 
I  tell  you  he's  dead  lonely,  Ann  Eliza." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann  Eliza. 


Ill 


^  I  MVO  days  afterward,  Ann  Eliza  noticed  that  Evelina, 
•*•  before  they  sat  down  to  supper,  pinned  a  crimson 
bow  under  her  collar;  and  when  the  meal  was  finished 
the  younger  sister,  who  seldom  concerned  herself  with 
the  clearing  of  the  table,  set  about  with  nervous  haste 
to  help  Ann  Eliza  in  the  removal  of  the  dishes. 

"I  hate  to  see  food  mussing  about,"  she  grumbled. 
"Ain't  it  hateful  having  to  do  everything  in  one  room?" 

"Oh,  Evelina,  I've  always  thought  we  was  so  com 
fortable,"  Ann  Eliza  protested. 

"Well,  so  we  are,  comfortable  enough;  but  I  don't  sup 
pose  there's  any  harm  in  my  saying  I  wisht  we  had  a 
parlour,  is  there?  Anyway,  we  might  manage  to  buy  a 
screen  to  hide  the  bed." 

Ann    Eliza   coloured.    There    was    something    vaguely 
embarrassing  in  Evelina's  suggestion. 
[332] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"I  always  think  if  we  ask  for  more  what  we  have  may 
be  taken  from  us,"  she  ventured. 

"Well,  whoever  took  it  wouldn't  get  much,"  Evelina 
retorted  with  a  laugh  as  she  swept  up  the  table-cloth. 

A  few  moments  later  the  back  room  was  in  its  usual 
flawless  order  and  the  two  sisters  had  seated  themselves 
near  the  lamp.  Ann  Eliza  had  taken  up  her  sewing,  and 
Evelina  was  preparing  to  make  artificial  flowers.  The  sis 
ters  usually  relegated  this  more  delicate  business  to  the 
long  leisure  of  the  summer  months;  but  to-night  Evelina 
had  brought  out  the  box  which  lay  all  winter  under  the 
bed,  and  spread  before  her  a  bright  array  of  muslin  petals, 
yellow  stamens  and  green  corollas,  and  a  tray  of  little 
implements  curiously  suggestive  of  the  dental  art.  Ann 
Eliza  made  no  remark  on  this  unusual  proceeding;  per 
haps  she  guessed  why  for  that  evening  her  sister  had 
chosen  a  graceful  task. 

Presently  a  knock  on  the  outer  door  made  them  look 
up;  but  Evelina,  the  first  on  her  feet,  said  promptly: 
"Sit  still.  I'll  see  who  it  is." 

Ann  Eliza  was  glad  to  sit  still:  the  baby's  petticoat 
„  tha^  she  was  stitching  shook  in  her  fingers. 

"Sister,  here's  Mr.  Ramy  come  to  look  at  the  clock," 
said  Evelina,  a  moment  later,  in  the  high  drawl  she  cul 
tivated  before  strangers;  and  a  shortish  man  with  a  pale 
bearded  face  and  upturned  coat-collar  came  stiffly  into 
the  room. 

[333] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Ann  Eliza  let  her  work  fall  as  she  stood  up.  "You're 
very  welcome,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Ramy.  It's  real  kind  of  you 
to  call." 

"Nod  ad  all,  ma'am."  A  tendency  to  illustrate  Grimm's 
law  in  the  interchange  of  his  consonants  betrayed  the 
clock-maker's  nationality,  but  he  was  evidently  used  to 
speaking  English,  or  at  least  the  particular  branch  of  the 
vernacular  with  which  the  Bunner  sisters  were  familiar. 
"I  don't  like  to  led  any  clock  go  out  of  my  store  without 
being  sure  it  gives  satisfaction,"  he  added. 

"Oh, — but  we  were  satisfied,"  Ann  Eliza  assured  him. 

"But  I  wasn't,  you  see,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Ramy 
looking  slowly  about  the  room,  "nor  I  won't  be,  not  till 
I  see  that  clock's  going  all  right." 

"May  I  assist  you  off  with  your  coat,  Mr.  Ramy?" 
Evelina  interposed.  She  could  never  trust  Ann  Eliza  to 
remember  these  opening  ceremonies. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  and  taking  his 
thread-bare  over-coat  and  shabby  hat  she  laid  them  on 
a  chair  with  the  gesture  she  imagined  the  lady  with  the 
puffed  sleeves  might  make  use  of  on  similar  occasions. 
Ann  Eliza's  social  sense  was  roused,  and  she  felt  that  the 
next  act  of  hospitality  must  be  hers.  "Won't  you  suit 
yourself  to  a  seat?"  she  suggested.  "My  sister  will  reach 
down  the  clock;  but  I'm  sure  she's  all  right  again.  She's 
went  beautiful  ever  since  you  fixed  her." 

"Dat's  good,"  said  Mr.  Rainy.  His  lips  parted  in  a 
[334] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

smile  which  showed  a  row  of  yellowish  teeth  with  one  or 
two  gaps  in  it;  but  in  spite  of  this  disclosure  Ann  Eliza 
thought  his  smile  extremely  pleasant:  there  was  some 
thing  wistful  and  conciliating  in  it  which  agreed  with 
the  pathos  of  his  sunken  cheeks  and  prominent  eyes.  As 
he  took  the  clock  from  Evelina  and  bent  toward  the  lamp, 
the  light  fell  on  his  bulging  forehead  and  wide  skull  thinly 
covered  with  grayish  hair.  His  hands  were  pale  and  broad, 
with  knotty  joints  and  square  finger-tips  rimmed  with 
grime;  but  his  touch  was  as  light  as  a  woman's. 

"Well,  ladies,  dat  clock's  all  right,"  he  pronounced. 

"I'm  sure  we're  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Eve 
lina,  throwing  a  glance  at  her  sister. 

"Oh,"  Ann  Eliza  murmured,  involuntarily  answering 
the  admonition.  She  selected  a  key  from  the  bunch  that 
hung  at  her  waist  with  her  cutting-out  scissors,  and  fitting 
it  into  the  lock  of  the  cupboard,  brought  out  the  cherry 
brandy  and  three  old-fashioned  glasses  engraved  with 
vine  wreaths. 

"It's  a  very  cold  night,"  she  said,  "and  maybe  you'd 
like  a  sip  of  this  cordial.  It  was  made  a  great  while  ago 
by  our  grandmother." 

"It  looks  fine,"  said  Mr.  Ramy  bowing,  and  Ann  Eliza 
filled  the  glasses.  In  her  own  and  Evelina's  she  poured 
only  ••«  few  drops,  but  she  filled  their  guest's  to  the  brim. 
"My  sister  and  I  seldom  take  wine,"  she  explained. 

With  another  bow,  which  included  both  his  hostesses, 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Mr.  Ramy  drank  off  the  cherry  brandy  and  pronounced 
it  excellent. 

Evelina  meanwhile,  with  an  assumption  of  industry 
intended  to  put  their  guest  at  ease,  had  taken  up  her 
instruments  and  was  twisting  a  rose-petal  into  shape. 

"You  make  artificial  flowers,  I  see,  ma'am,"  said  Mr. 
Ramy  with  interest.  "It's  very  pretty  work.  I  had  a  lady- 
vriend  in  Shermany  dat  used  to  make  flowers."  He  put 
out  a  square  finger-tip  to  touch  the  petal. 

Evelina  blushed  a  little.  "You  left  Germany  long  ago, 
I  suppose?" 

"Dear  me  yes,  a  goot  while  ago.  I  was  only  ninedeen 
when  I  come  to  the  States." 

After  this  the  conversation  dragged  on  intermittently 
till  Mr.  Ramy,  peering  about  the  room  with  the  short 
sighted  glance  of  his  race,  said  with  an  air  of  interest: 
"You're  pleasantly  fixed  here;  it  looks  real  cosy."  The 
note  of  wistfulness  in  his  voice  was  obscurely  moving  to 
Ann  Eliza. 

"Oh,  we  live  very  plainly,"  said  Evelina,  with  an  affec 
tation  of  grandeur  deeply  impressive  to  her  sister.  "We 
have  very  simple  tastes." 

"You  look  real  comfortable,  anyhow,"  said  Mr.  Ramy. 
His  bulging  eyes  seemed  to  muster  the  details  of  the 
scene  with  a  gentle  envy.  "I  wisht  I  had  as  good  a  store; 
but  I  guess  no  blace  seems  homelike  when  you're  always 
alone  in  it." 

[330] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

For  some  minutes  longer  the  conversation  moved  on 
at  this  desultory  pace,  and  then  Mr.  Ramy,  who  had  been 
obviously  nerving  himself  for  the  difficult  act  of  departure, 
took  his  leave  with  an  abruptness  which  would  have 
startled  anyone  used  to  the  subtler  gradations  of  inter 
course.  But  to  Ann  Eliza  and  her  sister  there  was  nothing 
surprising  in  his  abrupt  retreat.  The  long-drawn  agonies 
of  preparing  to  leave,  and  the  subsequent  dumb  plunge 
through  the  door,  were  so  usual  in  their  circle  that  they 
would  have  been  as  much  embarrassed  as  Mr.  Ramy  if 
he  had  tried  to  put  any  fluency  into  his  adieux. 

After  he  had  left  both  sisters  remained  silent  for  a 
while;  then  Evelina,  laying  aside  her  unfinished  flower, 
said:  "I'll  go  and  lock  up." 


IV 


TNTOLERABLY  monotonous  seemed  now  to  the  Bun- 
ner  sisters  the  treadmill  routine  of  the  shop,  colour 
less  and  long  their  evenings  about  the  lamp,  aimless  their 
habitual  interchange  of  words  to  the  weary  accompani 
ment  of  the  sewing  and  pinking  machines. 

It  was  perhaps  with  the  idea  of  relieving  the  tension 
of  their  mood  that  Evelina,  the  following  Sunday,  sug 
gested  inviting  Miss  Mellins  to  supper.  The  Bunner  sis 
ters  were  not  in  a  position  to  be  lavish  of  the  humblest 
hospitably,  but  two  or  three  times  in  the  year  they  shared 
[  337  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

their  evening  meal  with  a  friend;  and  Miss  Mellins,  still 
flushed  with  the  importance  of  her  "turn,"  seemed  the 
most  interesting  guest  they  could  invite. 

As  the  three  women  seated  themselves  at  the  supper- 
table,  embellished  by  the  unwonted  addition  of  pound 
cake  and  sweet  pickles,  the  dress-maker's  sharp  swarthy 
person  stood  out  vividly  between  the  neutral-tinted  sis 
ters.  Miss  Mellins  was  a  small  woman  with  a  glossy  yellow 
face  and  a  frizz  of  black  hair  bristling  with  imitation 
tortoise-shell  pins.  Her  sleeves  had  a  fashionable  cut, 
and  half  a  dozen  metal  bangles  rattled  on  her  wrists. 
Her  voice  rattled  like  her  bangles  as  she  poured  forth  a 
stream  of  anecdote  and  ejaculation;  and  her  round  black 
eyes  jumped  with  acrobatic  velocity  from  one  face  to 
another.  Miss  Mellins  was  always  having  or  hearing  of 
amazing  adventures.  She  had  surprised  a  burglar  in  her 
room  at  midnight  (though  how  he  got  there,  what  he 
robbed  her  of,  and  by  what  means  he  escaped  had  never 
been  quite  clear  to  her  auditors);  she  had  been  warned 
by  anonymous  letters  that  her  grocer  (a  rejected  suitor) 
was  putting  poison  in  her  tea;  she  had  a  customer  who 
was  shadowed  by  detectives,  and  another  (a  very  wealthy 
lady)  who  had  been  arrested  in  a  department  store  for 
kleptomania;  she  had  been  present  at  a  spiritualist 
seance  where  an  old  gentleman  had  died  in  a  fit  on  seeing 
a  materialization  of  his  mother-in-law;  she  had  escaped 
from  two  fires  in  her  night-gown,  and  at  the  funeral  of 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

her  first  cousin  the  horses  attached  to  the  hearse  had  run 
away  and  smashed  the  coffin,  precipitating  her  relative 
into  an  open  man-hole  before  the  eyes  of  his  distracted 
family. 

A  sceptical  observer  might  have  explained  Miss  Mel- 
lins's  proneness  to  adventure  by  the  fact  that  she  derived 
her  chief  mental  nourishment  from  the  Police  Gazette 
and  the  Fireside  Weekly;  but  her  lot  was  cast  in  a  circle 
where  such  insinuations  were  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and 
where  the  title-role  in  blood-curdling  drama  had  long 
been  her  recognized  right. 

"Yes,"  she  was  now  saying,  her  emphatic  eyes  on  Ann 
Eliza,  "you  may  not  believe  it,  Miss  B miner,  and  I  don't 
know's  I  should  myself  if  anybody  else  was  to  tell  me, 
but  over  a  year  before  ever  I  was  born,  my  mother  she 
went  to  see  a  gypsy  fortune-teller  that  was  exhibited  in 
a  tent  on  the  Battery  with  the  green-headed  lady,  though 
her  father  warned  her  not  to — and  what  you  s'pose  she 
told  her?  Why,  she  told  her  these  very  words — says  she: 
*  Your  next  child'll  be  a  girl  with  jet-black  curls,  and  she'll 
suffer  from  spasms.'" 

"Mercy!"  murmured  Ann  Eliza,  a  ripple  of  sympathy 
running  down  her  spine. 

"D'you  ever  have  spasms  before,  Miss  Mellins?"  Eve 
lina  asked. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  the  dress-maker  declared.  "And  where'd 
you  suppose  I  had  'em  ?  Why,  at  my  cousin  Emma  Mcln- 
[339] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

tyre's  wedding,  her  that  married  the  apothecary  over  in 
Jersey  City,  though  her  mother  appeared  to  her  in  a 
dream  and  told  her  she'd  rue  the  day  she  done  it,  but 
as  Emma  said,  she  got  more  advice  than  she  wanted  from 
the  living,  and  if  she  was  to  listen  to  spectres  too  she'd 
never  be  sure  what  she'd  ought  to  do  and  what  she'd 
oughtn't;  but  I  will  say  her  husband  took  to  drink,  and 
she  never  was  the  same  woman  after  her  fust  baby — 
well,  they  had  an  elegant  church  wedding,  and  what  you 
s'pose  I  saw  as  I  was  walkin'  up  the  aisle  with  the  wedding 
percession  ?  " 

"Well?"  Ann  Eliza  whispered,  forgetting  to  thread 
her  needle. 

"Why,  a  coffin,  to  be  sure,  right  on  the  top  step  of  the 
chancel — Emma's  folks  is  'piscopalians  and  she  would 
have  a  church  wedding,  though  his  mother  raised  a  ter 
rible  rumpus  over  it — well,  there  it  set,  right  in  front  of 
where  the  minister  stood  that  was  going  to  marry  'em, 
a  coffin,  covered  with  a  black  velvet  pall  with  a  gold 
fringe,  and  a  'Gates  Ajar'  in  white  camelias  atop  of 
it." 

"Goodness,"  said  Evelina,  starting,  "there's  a  knock!" 

"Who  can  it  be?"  shuddered  Ann  Eliza,  still  under 
the  spell  of  Miss  Mellins's  hallucination. 

Evelina  rose  and  lit  a  candle  to  guide  her  through  the 
shop.  They  heard  her  turn  the  key  of  the  outer  door, 
and  a  gust  of  night  air  stirred  the  close  atmosphere  of 
[  340  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

the  back  room;  then  there  was  a  sound  of  vivacious  ex 
clamations,  and  Evelina  returned  with  Mr.  Ramy. 

Ann  Eliza's  heart  rocked  like  a  boat  in  a  heavy  sea, 
and  the  dress-maker's  eyes,  distended  with  curiosity, 
sprang  eagerly  from  face  to  face. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  call  in  again,"  said  Mr.  Ramy, 
evidently  somewhat  disconcerted  by  the  presence  of  Miss 
Mellins.  "Just  to  see  how  the  clock's  behaving,"  he 
added  with  his  hollow-cheeked  smile. 

"Oh,  she's  behaving  beautiful,"  said  Ann  Eliza;  "but 
we're  real  glad  to  see  you  all  the  same.  Miss  Mellins,  let 
me  make  you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Ramy." 

The  dress-maker  tossed  back  her  head  and  dropped  her 
lids  in  condescending  recognition  of  the  stranger's  pres 
ence;  and  Mr.  Ramy  responded  by  an  awkward  bow. 
After  the  first  moment  of  constraint  a  renewed  sense  of 
satisfaction  filled  the  consciousness  of  the  three  women. 
The  Bunner  sisters  were  not  sorry  to  let  Miss  Mellins  see 
that  they  received  an  occasional  evening  visit,  and  Miss 
Mellins  was  clearly  enchanted  at  the  opportunity  of 
pouring  her  latest  tale  into  a  new  ear.  As  for  Mr.  Ramy, 
lie  adjusted  himself  to  the  situation  with  greater  ease 
thsftr  might  have  been  expected,  and  Evelina,  who  had 
been  sorry  that  he  should  enter  the  room  while  the  re- 
main8'«f  supper  still  lingered  on  the  table,  blushed  with 
^pleasure  at  his  good-humored  offer  to  help  her  "glear 
away." 

[341] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

The  table  cleared,  Ann  Eliza  suggested  a  game  of  cards; 
and  it  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when  Mr.  Ramy  rose  to 
take  leave.  His  adieux  were  so  much  less  abrupt  than  on 
the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  that  Evelina  was  able  to 
satisfy  her  sense  of  etiquette  by  escorting  him,  candle  in 
hand,  to  the  outer  door;  and  as  the  two  disappeared  into 
the  shop  Mass  Mellins  playfully  turned  to  Ann  Eliza. 

"Well,  well,  Miss  Bunner,"  she  murmured,  jerking 
her  chin  in  the  direction  of  the  retreating  figures,  "I'd 
no  idea  your  sister  was  keeping  company.  On'y  to 
think!" 

Ann  Eliza,  roused  from  a  state  of  dreamy  beatitude, 
turned  her  timid  eyes  on  the  dress-maker. 

"Oh,  you're  mistaken,  Miss  Mellins.  We  don't  har'ly 
know  Mr.  Ramy." 

Miss  Mellins  smiled  incredulously.  "You  go  'long,  Miss 
Bunner.  I  guess  there'll  be  a  wedding  somewheres  round 
here  before  spring,  and  I'll  be  real  offended  if  I  ain't 
asked  to  make  the  dress.  I've  always  seen  her  in  a  gored 
satin  with  rooshings." 

Ann  Eliza  made  no  answer.  She  had  grown  very  pale, 
and  her  eyes  lingered  searchingly  on  Evelina  as  the 
younger  sister  re-entered  the  room.  Evelina's  cheeks  were 
pink,  and  her  blue  eyes  glittered;  but  it  seemed  to  Ann 
Eliza  that  the  coquettish  tilt  of  her  head  regrettably 
emphasized  the  weakness  of  her  receding  chin.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  Ann  Eliza  had  ever  seen  a  flaw  in  her 
[312] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

sister's   beauty,   and  her   involuntary   criticism   startled 
her  like  a  secret  disloyalty. 

That  night,  after  the  light  had  been  put  out,  the  elder 
sister  knelt  longer  than  usual  at  her  prayers.  In  the  silence 
of  the  darkened  room  she  was  offering  up  certain  dreams 
and  aspirations  whose  brief  blossoming  had  lent  a  tran 
sient  freshness  to  her  days.  She  wondered  now  how  she 
could  ever  have  supposed  that  Mr.  Ramy's  visits  had 
another  cause  than  the  one  Miss  Mellins  suggested.  Had 
not  the  sight  of  Evelina  first  inspired  him  with  a  sudden 
solicitude  for  the  welfare  of  the  clock?  And  what  charms 
but  Evelina's  could  have  induced  him  to  repeat  his  visit  ? 
Grief  held  up  its  torch  to  the  frail  fabric  of  Ann  Eliza's 
illusions,  and  with  a  firm  heart  she  watched  them  shrivel 
into  ashes;  then,  rising  from  her  knees  full  of  the  chill 
joy  of  renunciation,  she  laid  a  kiss  on  the  crimping  pins 
of  the  sleeping  Evelina  and  crept  under  the  bedspread 
at  her  side. 


TAURING  the  months  that  followed,  Mr.  Ramy  vis 
ited  the  sisters  with  increasing  frequency.  It  be- 

*  » 

came  his  habit  to  call  on  them  every  Sunday  evening,  and 
occasionally  during  the  week  he  would  find  an  excuse  for 
dropping  in  unannounced  as  they  were  settling  down  to 
their  work  beside  the  lamp.  Ann  Eliza  noticed  that  Eve 
lina  now  took  the  precaution  of  putting  on  her  crimson 
[343]  ' 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

bow  every  evening  before  supper,  and  that  she  had  re 
furbished  with  a  bit  of  carefully  washed  lace  the  black 
silk  which  they  still  called  new  because  it  had  been 
bought  a  year  after  Ann  Eliza's. 

Mr.  Ramy,  as  he  grew  more  intimate,  became  less  con 
versational,  and  after  the  sisters  had  blushingly  accorded 
him  the  privilege  of  a  pipe  he  began  to  permit  himself 
long  stretches  of  meditative  silence  that  were  not  without 
charm  to  his  hostesses.  There  was  something  at  once  forti 
fying  and  pacific  in  the  sense  of  that  tranquil  male  pres 
ence  in  an  atmosphere  which  had  so  long  quivered  with 
little  feminine  doubts  and  distresses;  and  the  sisters  fell 
into  the  habit  of  saying  to  each  other,  in  moments  of  un 
certainty:  "We'll  ask  Mr.  Ramy  when  he  comes,"  and 
of  accepting  his  verdict,  whatever  it  might  be,  with  a 
fatalistic  readiness  that  relieved  them  of  all  responsibility. 

When  Mr.  Ramy  drew  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
became,  in  his  turn,  confidential,  the  acuteness  ot  their 
sympathy  grew  almost  painful  to  the  sisters.  With  pas 
sionate  participation  they  listened  to  the  story  of  his 
early  struggles  in  Germany,  and  of  the  long  illness  which 
had  been  the  cause  of  his  recent  misfortunes.  The  name 
of  the  Mrs.  Hochmuller  (an  old  comrade's  widow)  who 
had  nursed  him  through  his  fever  was  greeted  with  rever 
ential  sighs  and  an  inward  pang  of  envy  whenever  it  re 
curred  in  his  biographical  monologues,  and  once  when 
the  sisters  were  alone  Evelina  called  a  responsive  flush 
[  344  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

to  Aim  Eliza's  brow  by  saying  suddenly,  without  the  men 
tion  of  any  name:  "I  wonder  what  she's  like?" 

One  day  toward  spring  Mr.  Ramy,  who  had  by  this 
time  become  as  much  a  part  of  their  lives  as  the  letter- 
carrier  or  the  milkman,  ventured  the  suggestion  that  the 
ladies  should  accompany  him  to  an  exhibition  of  stere- 
opticon  views  which  was  to  take  place  at  Chickering  Hall 
on  the  following  evening. 

After  their  first  breathless  "Oh!"  of  pleasure  there 
was  a  silence  of  mutual  consultation,  which  Ann  Eliza 
at  last  broke  by  saying:  "You  better  go  with  Mr.  Ramy, 
Evelina.  I  guess  wre  don't  both  want  to  leave  the  store  at 
night." 

Evelina,  with  such  protests  as  politeness  demanded, 
acquiesced  in  this  opinion,  and  spent  the  next  day  in 
trimming  a  white  chip  bonnet  with  forget-me-nots  of  her 
own  making.  Ann  Eliza  brought  out  her  mosaic  brooch,  a 
cashmere  scarf  of  their  mother's  was  taken  from  its  linen 
cerements,  and  thus  adorned  Evelina  blushingly  departed 
writh  Mr  Ramy,  while  the  elder  sister  sat  down  in  her 
place  at  the  pinking-machine. 

It  seemed  to  Ann  Eliza  that  she  was  alone  for  hours, 
"ana*  'she  Was  surprised,  when  she  heard  Evelina  tap  on 
the  door,  to  find  that  the  clock  marked  only  half-past 


"It  must  have  gone  wrong  again,"  she  reflected  as  she 
rose  to  let  her  sister  in. 

[345] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

The  evening  had  been  brilliantly  interesting,  and  sev 
eral  striking  stereopticon  views  of  Berlin  had  afforded 
Mr.  Ramy  the  opportunity  of  enlarging  on  the  marvels 
of  his  native  city. 

"He  said  he'd  love  to  show  it  all  to  me!"  Evelina  de 
clared  as  Ann  Eliza  conned  her  glowing  face.  "Did  you 
ever  hear  anything  so  silly  ?  I  didn't  know  which  way  to 
look." 

Ann  Eliza  received  this  confidence  with  a  sympathetic 
murmur. 

"My  bonnet  is  becoming,  isn't  it"?  Evelina  went  on 
irrelevantly,  smiling  at  her  reflection  in  the  cracked  glass 
above  the  chest  of  drawers. 

"You're  jest  lovely,"  said  Ann  Eliza. 

Spring  was  making  itself  unmistakably  known  to  the 
distrustful  New  Yorker  by  an  increased  harshness  of 
wind  and  prevalence  of  dust,  when  one  day  Evelina  en 
tered  the  back  room  at  supper-time  with  a  cluster  of 
jonquils  in  her  hand. 

"I  was  just  that  foolish,"  she  answered  Ann  Eliza's 
wondering  glance,  "I  couldn't  help  buyin'  'em.  I  felt  as 
if  I  must  have  something  pretty  to  look  at  right  away." 

"Oh,  sister,"  said  Ann  Eliza,  in  trembling  sympathy. 

She  felt  that  special  indulgence  must  be  conceded  to  those 

in  Evelina's  state  since  she  had  had  her  own  fleeting 

vision  of  such  mysterious  longings  as  the  words  betrayed. 

[346] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Evelina,  meanwhile,  had  taken  the  bundle  of  dried 
grasses  out  of  the  broken  china  vase,  and  was  putting  the 
jonquils  in  their  place  with  touches  that  lingered  down 
their  smooth  stems  and  blade-like  leaves. 

"Ain't  they  pretty  ?"  she  kept  repeating  as  she  gathered 
the  flowers  into  a  starry  circle.  "Seems  as  if  spring  was 
really  here,  don't  it?" 

Ann  Eliza  remembered  that  it  was  Mr.  Ramy's  eve 
ning. 

When  he  came,  the  Teutonic  eye  for  anything  that 
blooms  made  him  turn  at  once  to  the  jonquils. 

"Ain't  dey  pretty?"  he  said.  "Seems  like  as  if  de 
spring  was  really  here." 

"Don't  it?"  Evelina  exclaimed,  thrilled  by  the  coin 
cidence  of  their  thought.  "It's  just  what  I  was  saying  to 
my  sister." 

Ann  Eliza  got  up  suddenly  and  moved  away:  she  re 
membered  that  she  had  not  wound  the  clock  the  day 
before.  Evelina  was  sitting  at  the  table;  the  jonquils  rose 
slenderly  between  herself  and  Mr.  Ramy. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured  with  vague  eyes,  "how  I'd  love 
to  get  away  somewheres  into  the  country  this  very  min 
ute — somewheres  where  it  was  green  and  quiet.  Seems  as 
if  I  couldn't  stand  the  city  another  day."  But  Ann  Eliza 
noticed  that  she  was  looking  at  Mr.  Ramy,  and  not  at 
the  flowers. 

"I  guess  we  might  go  to  Ceridral  Park  some  Sunday," 
[3471 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

their  visitor  suggested.  "Do  you  ever  go  there,  Miss 
Evelina?" 

"No,  we  don't  very  often;  leastways  we  ain't  been  for 
a  good  while."  She  sparkled  at  the  prospect.  "It  would 
be  lovely,  wouldn't  it,  Ann  Eliza?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  elder  sister,  coming  back  to  her 
seat. 

"Well,  why  don't  we  go  next  Sunday?"  Mr.  Ramy 
continued.  "And  we'll  invite  Miss  Mellins  too — that'll 
make  a  gosy  little  party." 

That  night  when  Evelina  undressed  she  took  a  jonquil 
from  the  vase  and  pressed  it  with  a  certain  ostentation 
between  the  leaves  of  her  prayer-book.  Ann  Eliza,  cov 
ertly  observing  her,  felt  that  Evelina  was  not  sorry  to  be 
observed,  and  that  her  own  acute  consciousness  of  the 
act  was  somehow  regarded  as  magnifying  its  significance. 

The  following  Sunday  broke  blue  and  warm.  The  Bun- 
ner  sisters  were  habitual  church-goers,  but  for  once  they 
left  their  prayer-books  on  the  what-not,  and  ten  o'clock 
found  them,  gloved  and  bonneted,  awaiting  Miss  Mellins's 
knock.  Miss  Mellins  presently  appeared  in  a  glitter  of 
jet  sequins  and  spangles,  with  a  tale  of  having  seen  a 
strange  man  prowling  under  her  windows  till  he  was 
called  off  at  dawn  by  a  confederate's  whistle;  and  shortly 
afterward  came  Mr.  Ramy,  his  hair  brushed  with  more 
than  usual  care,  his  broad  hands  encased  in  gloves  of 

olive-green  kid. 

[  348  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

The  little  party  set  out  for  the  nearest  street-car,  and 
a  flutter  of  mingled  gratification  and  embarrassment 
stirred  Ann  Eliza's  bosom  when  it  was  found  that  Mr. 
Ramy  intended  to  pay  their  fares.  Nor  did  he  fail  to  live 
up  to  this  opening  liberality;  for  after  guiding  them  through 
the  Mall  and  the  Ramble  he  led  the  way  to  a  rustic  res 
taurant  where,  also  at  his  expense,  they  fared  idyllically 
on  milk  and  lemon-pie. 

After  this  they  resumed  their  walk,  strolling  on  with 
the  slowness  of  unaccustomed  holiday-makers  from  one 
path  to  another — through  budding  shrubberies,  past 
grass-banks  sprinkled  with  lilac  crocuses,  and  under  rocks 
on  which  the  forsythia  lay  like  sudden  sunshine.  Every 
thing  about  her  seemed  new  and  miraculously  lovely  to 
Ann  Eliza;  but  she  kept  her  feelings  to  herself,  leaving  it 
to  Evelina  to  exclaim  at  the  hepaticas  under  the  shady 
ledges,  and  to  Miss  Mellins,  less  interested  in  the  vegetable 
than  in  the  human  world,  to  remark  significantly  on  the 
probable  history  of  the  persons  they  met.  All  the  alleys 
were  thronged  with  promenaders  and  obstructed  by  per 
ambulators;  and  Miss  Mellins 's  running  commentary 

r 4  2fc*      -..-L 

throw  a  glare  of  lurid  possibilities  over  the  placid  family 
groups  and  their  romping  progeny. 

Ann  Eliza  was  in  no  mood  for  such  interpretations  of 

life!  but,  knowing  that  Miss  Mellins  had  been  invited  for 

the  sole  purpose  of  keeping  her  company  she  continued  to 

cling  to  the  dress-maker's  side,  letting  Mr.  Ramy  lead 

[  349  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

the  way  with  Evelina.  Miss  Mellins,  stimulated  by  the 
excitement  of  the  occasion,  grew  more  and  more  dis 
cursive,  and  her  ceaseless  talk,  and  the  kaleidoscopic 
wliirl  of  the  crowd,  were  unspeakably  bewildering  to  Ann 
Eliza.  Her  feet,  accustomed  to  the  slippered  ease  of  the 
shop,  ached  with  the  unfamiliar  effort  of  walking,  and  her 
ears  with  the  din  of  the  dress-maker's  anecdotes;  but 
every  nerve  in  her  was  aware  of  Evelina's  enjoyment, 
and  she  was  determined  that  no  weariness  of  hers  should 
curtail  it.  Yet  even  her  heroism  shrank  from  the  significant 
glances  which  Miss  Mellins  presently  began  to  cast  at 
the  couple  in  front  of  them:  Ann  Eliza  could  bear  to 
connive  at  Evelina's  bliss,  but  not  to  acknowledge  it  to 
others. 

At  length  Evelina's  feet  also  failed  her,  and  she  turned 
to  suggest  that  they  ought  to  be  going  home.  Her  flushed 
face  had  grown  pale  with  fatigue,  but  her  eyes  were 
radiant. 

The  return  lived  in  Ann  Eliza's  memory  with  the  per 
sistence  of  an  evil  dream.  The  horse-cars  were  packed 
with  the  returning  throng,  and  they  had  to  let  a  dozen 
go  by  before  they  could  push  their  way  into  one  that  was 
already  crowded.  Ann  Eliza  had  never  before  felt  so  tired. 
Even  Miss  Mellins's  flow  of  narrative  ran  dry,  and  they 
sat  silent,  wedged  between  a  negro  woman  and  a  pock 
marked  man  with  a  bandaged  head,  while  the  car  rum 
bled  slowly  down  a  squalid  avenue  to  their  corner.  Eve- 
[350] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

lina  and  Mr.  Ramy  sat  together  in  the  forward  part  of 
the  car,  and  Ann  Eliza  could  catch  only  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  the  forget-me-not  bonnet  and  the  clock-maker's 
shiny  coat-collar;  but  when  the  little  party  got  out  at 
their  corner  the  crowd  swept  them  together  again,  and 
they  walked  back  in  the  effortless  silence  of  tired  children 
to  the  Bunner  sisters'  basement.  As  Miss  Mellins  and  Mr. 
Ramy  turned  to  go  their  various  ways  Evelina  mustered 
a  last  display  of  smiles;  but  Ann  Eliza  crossed  the  threshold 
in  silence,  feeling  the  stillness  of  the  little  shop  reach  out 
to  her  like  consoling  arms. 

That  night  she  could  not  sleep;  but  as  she  lay  cold  and 
rigid  at  her  sister's  side,  she  suddenly  felt  the  pressure  of 
Evelina's  arms,  and  heard  her  whisper:  "Oh,  Ann  Eliza, 
warn't  it  heavenly?" 

VI 

TT^OR  four  days  after  their  Sunday  in  the  Park  the 
Bunner  sisters  had  no  news  of  Mr.  Ramy.  At  first 
neither  one  betrayed  her  disappointment  and  anxiety  to 
the  other;  but  on  the  fifth  morning  Evelina,  always  the 
first  to  yield  to  her  feelings,  said,  as  she  turned  from  her 
untasted  tea:  "I  thought  you'd  oughter  take  that  money 
out  by  now,  Ann  Eliza." 

Ann  Eliza  understood  and  reddened.  The  winter  had 
been  a  fairly  prosperous  one  for  the  sisters,  and  their 
[3511 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

slowly  accumulated  savings  had  now  reached  the  hand 
some  sum  of  two  hundred  dollars;  but  the  satisfaction 
they  might  have  felt  in  this  unwonted  opulence  had  been 
clouded  by  a  suggestion  of  Miss  Mellins's  that  there  were 
dark  rumours  concerning  the  savings  bank  in  which  their 
funds  were  deposited.  They  knew  Miss  Mellius  was  given 
to  vain  alarms;  but  her  words,  by  the  sheer  force  of  repeti 
tion,  had  so  shaken  Ann  Eliza's  peace  that  after  long  hours 
of  midnight  counsel  the  sisters  had  decided  to  advise 
with  Mr.  Ramy;  and  on  Ann  Eliza,  as  the  head  of  the 
house,  this  duty  had  devolved.  Mr.  Ramy,  when  con 
sulted,  had  not  only  confirmed  the  dress-maker's  report, 
but  had  offered  to  find  some  safe  investment  which  should 
give  the  sisters  a  higher  rate  of  interest  than  the  suspected 
savings  bank;  and  Ann  Eliza  knew  that  Evelina  alluded 
to  the  suggested  transfer. 

"Why,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  she  agreed.  "Mr.  Ramy  said 
if  he  was  us  he  wouldn't  want  to  leave  his  money  there 
any  longer'n  he  could  help." 

"It  was  over  a  week  ago  he  said  it,"  Evelina  reminded 
her. 

"I  know;  but  he  told  me  to  wait  till  he'd  found  out 
for  sure  about  that  other  investment;  and  we  ain't  seen 
him  since  then." 

Ann  Eliza's  words  released  their  secret  fear.  "I  wonder 
what's  happened  to  him,"  Evelina  said.  "You  don't  sup 
pose  he  could  be  sick?" 

[Si*] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"I  was  wondering  too,"  Ann  Eliza  rejoined;  and  the 
sisters  looked  down  at  their  plates. 

"I  should  think  you'd  oughter  do  something  about 
that  money  pretty  soon,"  Evelina  began  again. 

"Well,  I  know  I'd  oughter.  What  would  you  do  if  you 
was  me  ?  " 

"If  I  was  ?/ow,"  said  her  sister,  with  perceptible  em 
phasis  and  a  rising  blush,  "I'd  go  right  round  and  see  if 
Mr.  Ramy  was  sick.  You  could." 

The  words  pierced  Ann  Eliza  like  a  blade.  "Yes,  that's 
so,"  she  said. 

"It  would  only  seem  friendly,  if  he  really  is  sick.  If 
I  was  you  I'd  go  to-day,"  Evelina  continued;  and  after 
dinner  Ann  Eliza  went. 

On  the  way  she  had  to  leave  a  parcel  at  the  dyer's, 
and  having  performed  that  errand  she  turned  toward 
Mr.  Ramy's  shop.  Never  before  had  she  felt  so  old,  so 
hopeless  and  humble.  She  knew  she  was  bound  on  a  love- 
errand  of  Evelina's,  and  the  knowledge  seemed  to  dry 
the  last  drop  of  young  blood  in  her  veins.  It  took  from 
her,  too,  all  her  faded  virginal  shyness;  and  with  a  brisk 
composure  she  turned  the  handle  of  the  clock-maker's 
door. 

But  as  she  entered  her  heart  began  to  tremble,  for  she 
saw  Mr.  Ramy,  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands,  sitting  be 
hind  the  counter  in  an  attitude  of  strange  dejection.  At 
the  click  of  the  latch  he  looked  up  slowly,  fixing  a  lustre- 
[  353  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

less  stare  on  Ann  Eliza.  For  a  moment  she  thought  he  did 
not  know  her. 

"Oh,  you're  sick!"  she  exclaimed;  and  the  sound  of 
her  voice  seemed  to  recall  his  wandering  senses. 

"Why,  if  it  ain't  Miss  Bunner!"  he  said,  in  a  low 
thick  tone;  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  move,  and  she 
noticed  that  his  face  was  the  colour  of  yellow  ashes. 

"You  are  sick,"  she  persisted,  emboldened  by  his 
evident  need  of  help.  "Mr.  Ramy,  it  was  real  unfriendly 
of  you  not  to  let  us  know." 

He  continued  to  look  at  her  with  dull  eyes.  "I  ain't 
been  sick,"  he  said.  "Leastways  not  very:  only  one  of 
my  old  turns."  He  spoke  in  a  slow  laboured  way,  as  if 
he  had  difficulty  in  getting  his  words  together. 

"Rheumatism?"  she  ventured,  seeing  how  unwillingly 
he  seemed  to  move. 

"Well — somethin'  like,  maybe.  I  couldn't  hardly  put  a 
name  to  it." 

"If  it  was  anything  like  rheumatism,  my  grandmother 
used  to  make  a  tea — "  Ann  Eliza  began:  she  had  forgotten, 
in  the  warmth  of  the  moment,  that  she  had  only  come  as 
Evelina's  messenger. 

At  the  mention  of  tea  an  expression  of  uncontrollable 
repugnance  passed  over  Mr.  Ramy's  face.  "Oh,  I  guess 
I'm  getting  on  all  right.  I've  just  got  a  headache  to-day." 

Ann  Eliza's  courage  dropped  at  the  note  of  refusal 
in  his  voice. 

[854] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"I'm  sorry,"  slie  said  gently.  "My  sister  and  me'd 
have  been  glad  to  do  anything  we  could  for  you." 

"Thank  you  kindly,"  said  Mr.  Ramy  wearily;  then, 
as  she  turned  to  the  door,  he  added  with  an  effort:  "Maybe 
I'll  step  round  to-morrow." 

"We'll  be  real  glad,"  Ann  Eliza  repeated.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  a  dusty  bronze  clock  in  the  window.  She 
was  unaware  of  looking  at  it  at  the  time,  but  long  after 
ward  she  remembered  that  it  represented  a  Newfoundland 
dog  with  his  paw  on  an  open  book. 

When  she  reached  home  there  was  a  purchaser  in  the 
shop,  turning  over  hooks  and  eyes  under  Evelina's  absent- 
minded  supervision.  Ann  Eliza  passed  hastily  into  the 
back  room,  but  in  an  instant  she  heard  her  sister  at  her 
side. 

"  Quick !  I  told  her  I  was  goin'  to  look  for  some  smaller 
hooks — how  is  he?"  Evelina  gasped. 

"He  ain't  been  very  well,"  said  Ann  Eliza  slowly,  her 
eyes  on  Evelina's  eager  face;  "but  he  says  he'll  be  sure  to 
be  round  to-morrow  night." 

"He  will?  Are  you  telling  me  the  truth?" 

"Why,  Evelina  Bunner!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  care!"  cried  the  younger  recklessly,  rush 
ing  back  into  the  shop. 

Ann  Eliza  stood  burning  with  the  shame  of  Evelina's 
self-exposure.  She  was  shocked  that,  even  to  her,  Eve 
lina  should  lay  bare  the  nakedness  of  her  emotion;  and 
[355] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

sbe  tried  to  turn  her  thoughts  from  it  as  though  its  recol 
lection  made  her  a  sharer  in  her  sister's  debasement. 

The  next  evening,  Mr.  Ramy  reappeared,  still  some 
what  sallow  and  red-lidded,  but  otherwise  like  his  usual 
self.  Ann  Eliza  consulted  him  about  the  investment  he 
had  recommended,  and  after  it  had  been  settled  that  he 
should  attend  to  the  matter  for  her  he  took  up  the  illus 
trated  volume  of  Longfellow — for, as  the  sisters  had  learned, 
his  culture  soared  beyond  the  newspapers — and  read 
aloud,  with  a  fine  confusion  of  consonants,  the  poem  on 
"Maidenhood."  Evelina  lowered  her  lids  while  he  read. 
It  was  a  very  beautiful  evening,  and  Ann  Eliza  thought 
afterward  how  different  life  might  have  been  with  a 
companion  who  read  poetry  like  Mr.  Ramy. 


vn 


TP\URING  the  ensuing  weeks  Mr.  Ramy,  though  his 
"^^^  visits  were  as  frequent  as  ever,  did  not  seem  to 
regain  his  usual  spirits.  He  complained  frequently  of  head 
ache,  but  rejected  Ann  Eliza's  tentatively  proffered  rem 
edies,  and  seemed  to  shrink  from  any  prolonged  investi 
gation  of  his  symptoms.  July  had  come,  with  a  sudden 
ardour  of  heat,  and  one  evening,  as  the  three  sat  together 
by  the  open  window  in  the  back  room,  Evelina  said:  "I 
dunno  what  I  wouldn't  give,  a  night  like  this,  for  a  breath 
of  real  country  air." 

[356] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"So  would  I,"  said  Mr.  Ramy,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe.  "I'd  like  to  be  setting  in  an  arbour  dis 
very  minute." 

"Oh,  wouldn't  it  be  lovely?" 

"I  always  think  it's  real  cool  here — we'd  be  heaps 
hotter  up  where  Miss  Mellins  is,"  said  Ann  Eliza. 

"Oh,  I  daresay — but  we'd  be  heaps  cooler  somewhere 
else,"  her  sister  snapped:  she  was  not  infrequently  exas 
perated  by  Ann  Eliza's  furtive  attempts  to  mollify 
Providence. 

A  few  days  later  Mr.  Ramy  appeared  with  a  sugges 
tion  which  enchanted  Evelina.  He  had  gone  the  day  be 
fore  to  see  his  friend,  Mrs.  Hochmiiller,  who  lived  in  the 
outskirts  of  Hoboken,  and  Mrs.  Hochmiiller  had  pro 
posed  that  on  the  following  Sunday  he  should  bring  the 
Bunner  sisters  to  spend  the  day  with  her. 

"She's  got  a  real  garden,  you  know,"  Mr.  Ramy  ex 
plained,  "wid  trees  and  a  real  summer-house  to  set  in; 
and  hens  and  chickens  too.  And  it's  an  elegant  sail  over 
on  de  ferry-boat." 

The  proposal  drew  no  response  from  Ann  Eliza.  She  was 
still  oppressed  by  the  recollection  of  her  interminable 
Sunday  in  the  Park;  but,  obedient  to  Evelina's  imperious 
glance,  she  finally  faltered  out  an  acceptance. 

The  Sunday  was  a  very  hot  one,  and  once  on  the 
ferry-boat  Ann  Eliza  revived  at  the  touch  of  the  salt 
breeze,  and  the  spectacle  of  the  crowded  waters;  but 
[8*7] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

when  they  reached  the  other  shore,  and  stepped  out  on 
the  dirty  wharf,  she  began  to  ache  with  anticipated  weari 
ness.  They  got  into  a  street-car,  and  were  jolted  from  one 
mean  street  to  another,  till  at  length  Mr.  Ramy  pulled 
the  conductor's  sleeve  and  they  got  out  again;  then  they 
stood  in  the  blazing  sun,  near  the  door  of  a  crowded  beer- 
saloon,  waiting  for  another  car  to  come;  and  that  carried 
them  out  to  a  thinly  settled  district,  past  vacant  lots 
and  narrow  brick  houses  standing  in  unsupported  soli 
tude,  till  they  finally  reached  an  almost  rural  region  of 
scattered  cottages  and  low  wooden  buildings  that  looked 
like  village  "stores."  Here  the  car  finally  stopped  of  its 
own  accord,  and  they  walked  along  a  rutty  road,  past  a 
stone-cutter's  yard  with  a  high  fence  tapestried  with 
theatrical  advertisements,  to  a  little  red  house  with  green 
blinds  and  a  garden  paling.  Really,  Mr.  Ramy  had  not 
deceived  them.  Clumps  of  dielytra  arid  day-lilies  bloomed 
behind  the  paling,  and  a  crooked  elm  hung  romantically 
over  the  gable  of  the  house. 

At  the  gate  Mrs.  Hochmullcr,  a  broad  woman  in  brick- 
brown  merino,  met  them  with  nods  and  smiles,  while  her 
daughter  Linda,  a  flaxen-haired  girl  with  mottled  red 
cheeks  and  a  sidelong  stare,  hovered  inquisitively  behind 
her.  Mrs.  Hochmiiller,  leading  the  way  into  the  house, 
conducted  the  Bunner  sisters  the  way  to  her  bedroom. 
Here  they  were  invited  to  spread  out  on  a  mountainous 
white  feather-bed  the  cashmere  mantles  under  which  the 
[358] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

solemnity  of  the  occasion  had  compelled  them  to  swelter, 
and  when  they  had  given  their  black  silks  the  neces 
sary  twitch  of  readjustment,  arid  Evelina  had  fluffed 
out  her  hair  before  a  looking-glass  framed  in  pink-shell 
work,  their  hostess  led  them  to  a  stuffy  parlour  smelling 
of  ginger-bread.  After  another  ceremonial  pause,  broken 
by  polite  enquiries  and  shy  ejaculations,  they  were  shown 
into  the  kitchen,  where  the  table  was  already  spread 
with  strange-looking  spice-cakes  and  stewed  fruits,  and 
where  they  presently  found  themselves  seated  between 
Mrs.  Hochmuller  and  Mr.  Ramy,  while  the  staring  Linda 
bumped  back  and  forth  from  the  stove  with  steaming 
dishes. 

To  Ann  Eliza  the  dinner  seemed  endless,  and  the  rich 
fare  strangely  unappetizing.  She  was  abashed  by  the 
easy  intimacy  of  her  hostess's  voice  and  eye.  With  Mr. 
Ramy  Mrs.  Hochmuller  was  almost  flippantly  familiar, 
and  it  was  only  when  Ann  Eliza  pictured  her  generous 
form  bent  above  his  sick-bed  that  she  could  forgive  her 
for  tersely  addressing  him  as  "Ramy."  During  one  of 
the  pauses  of  the  meal  Mrs.  Hochmuller  laid  her  knife 
and  fork  against  the  edges  of  her  plate,  and,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  clock-maker's  face,  said  accusingly:  "You 
hat  one  of  dem  turns  again,  Ramy." 

"I  dunno  as  I  had,"  he  returned  evasively. 

Evelina  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  "Mr.  Ramy 
has  been  sick,"  she  said  at  length,  as  though  to  show 
[359] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

that  she  also  was  in  a  position  to  speak  with  authority. 
"He's  complained  very  frequently  of  headaches." 

"Ho! — I  know  him,"  said  Mrs.  HochmiilleTr  with  a 
laugh,  her  eyes  still  on  the  clock-maker.  "Ain't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself,  Ramy?" 

Mr.  Ramy,  who  was  looking  at  his  plate,  said  suddenly 
one  word  wrhich  the  sisters  could  not  understand;  it  sounded 
to  Ann  Eliza  like  "Shwike." 

Mrs.  Hochmiiller  laughed  again.  "My,  my,"  she  said, 
"wouldn't  you  think  he'd  be  ashamed  to  go  and  be  sick 
and  never  dell  me,  me  that  nursed  him  troo  dat  awful 
fever?" 

"Yes,  I  should"  said  Evelina,  with  a  spirited  glance  at 
Ramy;  but  he  was  looking  at  the  sausages  that  Linda 
had  just  put  on  the  table. 

When  dinner  was  over  Mrs.  Hochmiiller  invited  her 
guests  to  step  out  of  the  kitchen-door,  and  they  found 
themselves  in  a  green  enclosure,  half  garden,  half  orchard. 
Grey  hens  followed  by  golden  broods  clucked  under  the 
twisted  apple-boughs,  a  cat  dozed  on  the  edge  of  an  old 
well,  and  from  tree  to  tree  ran  the  network  of  clothes-line 
that  denoted  Mrs.  Hochmuller's  calling.  Beyond  the  apple 
trees  stood  a  yellow  summer-house  festooned  with  scarlet 
runners;  and  below  it,  on  the  farther  side  of  a  rough  fence, 
the  land  dipped  down,  holding  a  bit  of  woodland  in  its 
hollow.  It  was  all  strangely  sweet  and  still  on  that  hot 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  as  she  moved  across  the  grass 
[360] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

under  the  apple-boughs  Ann  Eliza  thought  of  quiet  after 
noons  in  church,  and  of  the  hymns  her  mother  had  sung 
to  her  when  she  was  a  baby. 

Evelina  was  more  restless.  She  wandered  from  the  well 
to  the  summer-house  and  back,  she  tossed  crumbs  to  the 
chickens  and  disturbed  the  cat  with  arch  caresses;  and 
at  last  she  expressed  a  desire  to  go  down  into  the 
wood. 

"I  guess  you  got  to  go  round  by  the  road,  then,"  said 
Mrs.  Hochmuller.  "My  Linda  she  goes  troo  a  hole  in  de 
fence,  but  I  guess  you'd  tear  your  dress  if  you  was  to  dry." 

"I'll  help  you,"  said  Mr.  Ramy;  and  guided  by  Linda 
the  pair  walked  along  the  fence  till  they  reached  a  narrow 
gap  in  its  boards.  Through  this  they  disappeared,  watched 
curiously  in  their  descent  by  the  grinning  Linda,  while 
Mrs.  Hochmuller  and  Ann  Eliza  were  left  alone  in  the 
summer-house. 

Mrs.  Hochmuller  looked  at  her  guest  with  a  confi 
dential  smile.  "I  guess  dey'll  be  gone  quite  a  while,"  she 
remarked,  jerking  her  double  chin  toward  the  gap  in  the 
fence.  "Folks  like  dat  don't  never  remember  about  de 
dime."  And  she  drew  out  her  knitting. 

Ann  Eliza  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 

"Your  sister  she  thinks  a  great  lot  of  him,  don't  she?" 
her  hostess  continued. 

Ann  Eliza's  cheeks  grew  hot.  "Ain't  you  a  teeny  bit 
lonesome   away   out   here   sometimes?"   she   asked.    "I 
[3611 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

should  tliiiik  you'd  be  scared  nights,  all  alone  with  your 
daughter." 

"Oh,  no,  I  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Hochmliller.  "You  see  I 
take  in  washing — dat's  my  business — and  it's  a  lot  cheaper 
doing  it  out  here  dan  in  de  city:  where'd  I  get  a  drying- 
ground  like  dis  in  Hobucken  ?  And  den  it's  safer  for  Linda 
too;  it  geeps  her  outer  de  streets." 

"Oh,"  said  Ann  Eliza,  shrinking.  She  began  to  feel  a 
distinct  aversion  for  her  hostess,  and  her  eyes  turned 
with  involuntary  annoyance  to  the  square-backed  form 
of  Linda,  still  inquisitively  suspended  on  the  fence.  It 
seemed  to  Ann  Eliza  that  Evelina  and  her  companion 
would  never  return  from  the  wood;  but  they  came  at 
length,  Mr.  Ramy's  brow  pearled  with  perspiration,  Eve 
lina  pink  and  conscious,  a  drooping  bunch  of  ferns  in  her 
hand;  and  it  was  clear  that,  to  her  at  least,  the  moments 
had  been  winged. 

"D'you  suppose  they'll  revive?"  she  asked,  holding  up 
the  ferns;  but  Ann  Eliza,  rising  at  her  approach,  said 
stiffly:  "We'd  better  be  getting  home,  Evelina." 

"Mercy  me !  Ain't  you  going  to  take  your  coffee  first?" 
Mrs.  Hochmuller  protested;  and  Ann  Eliza  found  to  her 
dismay  that  another  long  gastronomic  ceremony  must 
intervene  before  politeness  permitted  them  to  leave.  At 
length,  however,  they  found  themselves  again  on  the 
ferry-boat.  Water  and  sky  were  grey,  with  a  dividing 
gleam  of  sunset  that  sent  sleek  opal  waves  in  the  boat's 
[362] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

wake.  The  wind  had  a  cool  tarry  breath,  as  though  it 
had  travelled  over  miles  of  shipping,  and  the  hiss  of  the 
water  about  the  paddles  was  as  delicious  as  though  it 
had  been  splashed  into  their  tired  faces. 

Ann  Eliza  sat  apart,  looking  away  from  the  others. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Mr.  Ramy  had  pro 
posed  to  Evelina  in  the  wood,  and  she  was  silently 
preparing  herself  to  receive  her  sister's  confidence  that 
evening. 

But  Evelina  was  apparently  in  no  mood  for  confi 
dences.  When  they  reached  home  she  put  her  faded  ferns 
in  water,  and  after  supper,  when  she  had  laid  aside  her 
silk  dress  and  the  forget-me-not  bonnet,  she  remained 
silently  seated  in  her  rocking-chair  near  the  open  window. 
It  was  long  since  Ann  Eliza  had  seen  her  in  so  uncommuni 
cative  a  mood. 

The  following  Saturday  Ann  Eliza  was  sitting  alone  in 
the  shop  when  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Ramy  entered. 
He  had  never  before  called  at  that  hour,  and  she  wondered 
a  little  anxiously  what  had  brought  him. 
.  ."Has  anything  happened?"  she  asked,  pushing  aside 
the  basketful  of  buttons  she  had  been  sorting. 

"Not's  I  know  of,"  said  Mr.  Ramy  tranquilly.  "But 
I  always  close  up  the  store  at  two  o'clock  Saturdays  at 
this  season,  so  I  thought  I  might  as  well  call  round  and 
see  you." 

[363] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"I'm  real  glad,  I'm  sure,"  said  Ann  Eliza;  "but  Eve 
lina's  out." 

"I  know  dat,"  Mr.  Ramy  answered.  "I  met  her  round 
de  corner.  She  told  me  she  got  to  go  to  dat  new  dyer's 
up  in  Forty-eighth  Street.  She  won't  be  back  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  har'ly,  will  she?" 

Ann  Eliza  looked  at  him  with  rising  bewilderment. 
"No,  I  guess  not,"  she  answered;  her  instinctive  hos 
pitality  prompting  her  to  add:  "Won't  you  set  down  jest 
the  same?" 

Mr.  Ramy  sat  down  on  the  stool  beside  the  counter, 
and  Ann  Eliza  returned  to  her  place  behind  it. 

"I  can't  leave  the  store,"  she  explained. 

"Well,  I  guess  we're  very  well  here."  Ann  Eliza  had 
become  suddenly  aware  that  Mr.  Ramy  was  looking  at 
her  with  unusual  intentness.  Involuntarily  her  hand 
strayed  to  the  thin  streaks  of  hair  on  her  temples,  and 
thence  descended  to  straighten  the  brooch  beneath  her 
collar. 

"You're  looking  very  well  to-day,  Miss  Bunner,"  said 
Mr.  Ramy,  following  her  gesture  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,"  said  Ann  Eliza  nervously.  "I'm  always  well  in 
health,"  she  added. 

"I  guess  you're  healthier  than  your  sister,  even  if  you 
are  less  sizeable." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Evelina's  a  mite  nervous  some 
times,  but  she  ain't  a  bit  sickly." 
[364J 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"She  eats  heartier  than  you  do;  but  that  don't  mean 
nothing,"  said  Mr.  Ramy. 

Ann  Eliza  was  silent.  She  could  not  follow  the  trend 
of  his  thought,  and  she  did  not  care  to  commit  herself 
farther  about  Evelina  before  she  had  ascertained  if  Mr. 
Ramy  considered  nervousness  interesting  or  the  reverse. 

But  Mr.  Ramy  spared  her  all  farther  indecision. 

"Well,  Miss  Bunner,"  he  said,  drawing  his  stool  closer 
to  the  counter,  "I  guess  I  might  as  well  tell  you  fust  as 
last  what  I  come  here  for  to-day.  I  want  to  get  married.'* 

Ann  Eliza,  in  many  a  prayerful  midnight  hour,  had 
sought  to  strengthen  herself  for  the  hearing  of  this  avowal, 
but  now  that  it  had  come  she  felt  pitifully  frightened  and 
unprepared.  Mr.  Ramy  was  leaning  with  both  elbows  on 
the  counter,  and  she  noticed  that  his  nails  were  clean  and 
that  he  had  brushed  his  hat;  yet  even  these  signs  had  not 
prepared  her ! 

At  last  she  heard  herself  say,  with  a  dry  throat  in  which 
her  heart  was  hammering:  "Mercy  me,  Mr.  Ramy!" 

"I  want  to  get  married,"  he  repeated.  "I'm  too  lone 
some.  It  ain't  good  for  a  man  to  live  all  alone,  and  eat 
noding  but  cold  meat  every  day." 

"No,"  said  Ann  Eliza  softly. 

"And  the  dust  fairly  beats  me." 
*     -"Oh,  the  dust— I  know ! " 

Mr.  Ramy  stretched  one  of  his  blunt-fingered  hands 
toward  her.  "I  wisht  you'd  take  me." 
[365] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Still  Ann  Eliza  did  not  understand.  She  rose  hesi 
tatingly  from  her  seat,  pushing  aside  the  basket  of  but 
tons  which  lay  between  them;  then  she  perceived  that 
Mr.  Rainy  was  trying  to  take  her  hand,  and  as  their 
fingers  met  a  flood  of  joy  swept  over  her.  Never  after 
ward,  though  every  other  word  of  their  interview  was 
stamped  on  her  memory  beyond  all  possible  forgetting, 
could  she  recall  what  he  said  while  their  hands  touched; 
she  only  knew  that  she  seemed  to  be  floating  on  a  summer 
sea,  and  that  all  its  waves  were  in  her  ears. 

"Me— me?  "she  gasped. 

"I  guess  so,"  said  her  suitor  placidly.  "You  suit  me 
right  down  to  the  ground,  Miss  Bunner.  Dat's  the 
truth." 

A  woman  passing  along  the  street  paused  to  look  at 
the  shop-window,  and  Ann  Eliza  half  hoped  she  would 
come  in;  but  after  a  desultory  inspection  she  went  on. 

"Maybe  you  don't  fancy  me?"  Mr.  Ramy  suggested, 
discountenanced  by  Ann  Eliza's  silence. 

A  word  of  assent  was  on  her  tongue,  but  her  lips  re 
fused  it.  She  must  find  some  other  way  of  telling  him. 

"I  don't  say  that." 

"Well,  I  always  kinder  thought  we  was  suited  to  one 
another,''  Mr.  Ramy  continued,  eased  of  his  momentary 
doubt.  "I  always  liked  de  quiet  style — no  fuss  and  airs, 
and  not  afraid  of  work."  He  spoke  as  though  dispassion 
ately  cataloguing  her  charms. 
[  366  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Ann  Eliza  felt  that  she  must  make  an  end.  "But,  Mr. 
Ramy,  you  don't  understand.  I've  never  thought  of 
marrying." 

Mr.  Ramy  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Why  not?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  har'ly."  She  moistened  her  twitch 
ing  lips.  "The  fact  is,  I  ain't  as  active  as  I  look.  Maybe  I 
couldn't  stand  the  care.  I  ain't  as  spry  as  Evelina — nor 
as  young,"  she  added,  with  a  last  great  effort. 

"But  you  do  most  of  de  work  here,  anyways,"  said 
her  suitor  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  because  Evelina's  busy  outside;  and 
where  there's  only  two  women  the  work  don't  amount 
to  much.  Besides,  I'm  the  oldest;  I  have  to  look  after 
things,"  she  hastened  on,  half  pained  that  her  simple  ruse 
should  so  readily  deceive  him. 

"Well,  I  guess  you're  active  enough  for  me,"  he  per 
sisted.  His  calm  determination  began  to  frighten  her; 
she  trembled  lest  her  own  should  be  less  staunch. 

"No,  no,"  she  repeated,  feeling  the  tears  on  her  lashes. 
"I  couldn't,  Mr.  Ramy,  I  couldn't  marry.  I'm  so  sur 
prised.  I  always  thought  it  was  Evelina — always.  And  so 
did  everybody  else.  She's  so  bright  and  pretty — it  seemed 
so  natural." 

"Well,  you  was  all  mistaken,"  said  Mr.  Ramy  obsti 
nately. 

"I'm  so  sorry." 

He  rose,  pushing  back  his  chair. 
[  307  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"You'd  better  think  it  over,"  he  said,  in  the  large  tone 
of  a  man  who  feels  he  may  safely  wait. 

"Oh,  no,  no.  It  ain't  any  sorter  use,  Mr.  Ramy.  I  don't 
never  mean  to  marry.  I  get  tired  so  easily — I'd  be  afraid 
of  the  work.  And  I  have  such  awful  headaches."  She 
paused,  racking  her  brain  for  more  convincing  infirmities. 

"Headaches,  do  you?"  said  Mr.  Ramy,  turning  back. 

"My,  yes,  awful  ones,  that  I  have  to  give  right  up  to. 
Evelina  has  to  do  everything  when  I  have  one  of  them 
headaches.  She  has  to  bring  me  my  tea  in  the  mornings." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Ramy. 

"Thank  you  kindly  all  the  same,"  Ann  Eliza  murmured. 
"And  please  don't — don't — "  She  stopped  suddenly, 
looking  at  him  through  her  tears. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  answered.  "Don't  you  fret, 
Miss  Bunner.  Folks  have  got  to  suit  themselves."  She 
thought  his  tone  had  grown  more  resigned  since  she  had 
spoken  of  her  headaches. 

For  some  moments  he  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  hesi 
tating  eye,  as  though  uncertain  how  to  end  their  con 
versation;  and  at  length  she  found  courage  to  say  (in 
the  words  of  a  novel  she  had  once  read):  "I  don't  want 
this  should  make  any  difference  between  us." 

"Oh,  my,  no,"  said  Mr.  Ramy,  absently  picking  up 
his  hat. 

"You'll  come  in  just  the  same?"  she  continued,  nerv 
ing  herself  to  the  effort.  "We'd  miss  you  awfully  if  you 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

didn't.  Evelina,  she — "  She  paused,  torn  between  her 
desire  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  Evelina,  and  the  dread  of 
prematurely  disclosing  her  sister's  secret. 

"Don't  Miss  Evelina  have  no  headaches?"  Mr.  Ramy 
suddenly  asked. 

"My,  no,  never — well,  not  to  speak  of,  anyway.  She 
ain't  had  one  for  ages,  and  when  Evelina  is  sick  she  won't 
never  give  in  to  it,"  Ann  Eliza  declared,  making  some 
hurried  adjustments  with  her  conscience. 

"I  wouldn't  have  thought  that,"  said  Mr.  Ramy. 

"I  guess  you  don't  know  us  as  well  as  you  thought  you 
did." 

"Well,  no,  that's  so;  maybe  I  don't.  I'll  wish  you  good 
day,  Miss  Bunner";  and  Mr.  Ramy  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"Good  day,  Mr.  Ramy,"  Ann  Eliza  answered. 

She  felt  unutterably  thankful  to  be  alone.  She  knew 
the  crucial  moment  of  her  life  had  passed,  and  she  was 
glad  that  she  had  not  fallen  below  her  own  ideals.  It  had 
been  a  wonderful  experience,  full  of  undreamed-of  fear 
and  fascination;  and  in  spite  of  the  tears  on  her  cheeks 
she  was  not  sorry  to  have  known  it.  Two  facts,  however, 
took  the  edge  from  its  perfection:  that  it  had  happened 
in  the  shop,  and  that  she  had  not  had  on  her  black  silk. 

She  passed  the  next  hour  in  a  state  of  dreamy  ecstasy. 
Something  had  entered  into  her  life  of  which  no  subse 
quent  empoverishment  could  rob  it:  she  glowed  with  the 
[  369  1 


BUN  NEB    SISTERS 

same  rich  sense  of  possessorship  that  once,  as  a  little 
girl,  she  had  felt  when  her  mother  had  given  her  a  gold 
locket  and  she  had  sat  up  in  bed  in  the  dark  to  draw  it 
from  its  hiding-place  beneath  her  night-gown. 

At  length  a  dread  of  Evelina's  return  began  to  mingle 
with  these  musings.  How  could  she  meet  her  younger 
sister's  eye  without  betraying  what  had  happened?  She 
felt  as  though  a  visible  glory  lay  on  her,  and  she  was 
glad  that  dusk  had  fallen  when  Evelina  entered.  But  her 
fears  were  superfluous.  Evelina,  always  self-absorbed, 
had  of  late  lost  all  interest  in  the  simple  happenings  of 
the  shop,  and  Ann  Eliza,  with  mingled  mortification  and 
relief,  perceived  that  she  was  in  no  danger  of  being  cross- 
questioned  as  to  the  events  of  the  afternoon.  She  was 
glad  of  this;  yet  there  was  a  touch  of  humiliation  in  find 
ing  that  the  portentous  secret  in  her  bosom  did  not  visibly 
shine  forth.  It  struck  her  as  dull,  and  even  slightly  ab 
surd,  of  Evelina  not  to  know  at  last  that  they  were  equals. 

VIII 

R.  RAMY,  after  a  decent  interval,  returned  to  the 
shop;  and  Ann  Eliza,  when  they  met,  was  unable 
to  detect  whether  the  emotions  which  seethed  under  her 
black  alpaca  found  an  echo  in  his  bosom.  Outwardly  he 
made  no  sign.  He  lit  his  pipe  as  placidly  as  ever  and 
seemed  to  relapse  without  effort  into  the  unruffled  in- 
[370] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

timacy  of  old.  Yet  to  Ann  Eliza's  initiated  eye  a  change 
became  gradually  perceptible.  She  saw  that  he  was  be 
ginning  to  look  at  her  sister  as  he  had  looked  at  her  on 
that  momentous  afternoon:  she  even  discerned  a  secret 
significance  in  the  turn  of  his  talk  with  Evelina.  Once  he 
asked  her  abruptly  if  she  should  like  to  travel,  and  Ann 
Eliza  saw  that  the  flush  on  Evelina's  cheek  was  reflected 
from  the  same  fire  which  had  scorched  her  own. 

So  they  drifted  on  through  the  sultry  weeks  of  July. 
At  that  season  the  business  of  the  little  shop  almost 
ceased,  and  one  Saturday  morning  Mr.  Ramy  proposed 
that  the  sisters  should  lock  up  early  and  go  with  him 
for  a  sail  down  the  bay  in  one  of  the  Coney  Island  boats. 

Ann  Eliza  saw  the  light  in  Evelina's  eye  and  her  re 
solve  was  instantly  taken. 

"I  guess  I  won't  go,  thank  you  kindly;  but  I'm  sure 
my  sister  will  be  happy  to." 

She  was  pained  by  the  perfunctory  phrase  with  which 
Evelina  urged  her  to  accompany  them;  and  still  more  by 
Mr.  Ramy's  silence. 

"No,  I  guess  I  won't  go,"  she  repeated,  rather  in 
answer  to  herself  than  to  them.  "It's  dreadfully  hot  and 
I've  got  a  kinder  headache." 

"Oh,  well,  I  wouldn't  then,"  said  .her  sister  hurriedly. 
"You'd  better  jest  set  here  quietly  and  rest." 

"Yes,  I'll  rest,"  Ann  Eliza  assented. 

At  two  o'clock  Mr.  Ramy  returned,  and  a  moment 
[371] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

later  he  and  Evelina  left  the  shop.  Evelina  had  made  her 
self  another  new  bonnet  for  the  occasion,  a  bonnet,  Ann 
Eliza  thought,  almost  too  youthful  in  shape  and  colour. 
It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  occurred  to  her  to  criticize 
Evelina's  taste,  and  she  was  frightened  at  the  insidious 
change  in  her  attitude  toward  her  sister. 

When  Ann  Eliza,  in  later  days,  looked  back  on  that 
afternoon  she  felt  that  there  had  been  something  pro 
phetic  in  the  quality  of  its  solitude;  it  seemed  to  distill  the 
triple  essence  of  loneliness  in  which  all  her  after-life  was 
to  be  lived.  No  purchasers  came;  not  a  hand  fell  on  the 
door-latch;  and  the  tick  of  the  clock  in  the  back  room 
ironically  emphasized  the  passing  of  the  empty  hours. 

Evelina  returned  late  and  alone.  Ann  Eliza  felt  the 
coming  crisis  in  the  sound  of  her  footstep,  which  wavered 
along  as  if  not  knowing  on  what  it  trod.  The  elder  sister's 
affection  had  so  passionately  projected  itself  into  her 
junior's  fate  that  at  such  moments  she  seemed  to  be  living 
two  lives,  her  own  and  Evelina's;  and  her  private  longings 
shrank  into  silence  at  the  sight  of  the  other's  hungry 
bliss.  But  it  was  evident  that  Evelina,  never  acutely  alive 
to  the  emotional  atmosphere  about  her,  had  no  idea  that 
her  secret  was  suspected;  and  with  an  assumption  of  un 
concern  that  would  have  made  Ann  Eliza  smile  if  the 
pang  had  been  less  piercing,  the  younger  sister  prepared 
to  confess  herself. 

"What  are  you  so  busy  about?"  she  said  impatiently, 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

as  Ann  Eliza,  beneath  the  gas-jet,  fumbled  for  the  matches. 
"Ain't  you  even  got  time  to  ask  me  if  I'd  had  a  pleasant 
day?" 

Ann  Eliza  turned  with  a  quiet  smile.  "I  guess  I  don't 
have  to.  Seems  to  me  it's  pretty  plain  you  have.." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  how  I  feel— it's  all 
so  queer.  I  almost  think  I'd  like  to  scream." 

"I  guess  you're  tired." 

"No,  I  ain't.  It's  not  that.  But  it  all  happened  so  sud 
denly,  and  the  boat  was  so  crowded  I  thought  every- 
body'd  hear  what  he  was  saying. — Ann  Eliza,"  she  broke 
out,  "why  on  earth  don't  you  ask  me  what  I'm  talking 
about?" 

Ann  Eliza,  with  a  last  effort  of  heroism,  feigned  a  fond 
incomprehension. 

"What  are  you?" 

"Why,  I'm  engaged  to  be  married — so  there!  Now  it's 
out!  And  it  happened  right  on  the  boat;  only  to  think 
of  it!  Of  course  I  wasn't  exactly  surprised — I've  known 
right  along  he  was  going  to  sooner  or  later — on'y  some 
how  I  didn't  think  of  its  happening  to-day.  I  thought  he'd 
.neyer  get  up  his  courage.  He  said  he  was  so  'fraid  I'd 
say  no — that's  what  kep*  him  so  long  from  asking  me. 
Well,  I  ain't  said  yes  yet — leastways  I  told  him  I'd  have 
to  think  it  over;  but  I  guess  he  knows.  Oh,  Ann  Eliza, 
I'm  so  happy!"  She  hid  the  blinding  brightness  of  her 
face. 

[3731 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Ann  Eliza,  just  then,  would  only  let  herself  feel  that 
she  was  glad.  She  drew  down  Evelina's  hands  and  kissed 
her,  and  they  held  each  other.  When  Evelina  regained  her 
voice  she  had  a  tale  to  tell  which  carried  their  vigil  far  into 
the  night.  Not  a  syllable,  not  a  glance  or  gesture  of 
Ramy's,  was  the  elder  sister  spared;  and  with  uncon 
scious  irony  she  found  herself  comparing  the  details  of 
his  proposal  to  her  with  those  which  Evelina  was  im 
parting  with  merciless  prolixity. 

The  next  few  days  were  taken  up  with  the  embarrassed 
adjustment  of  their  new  relation  to  Mr.  Ramy  and  to 
each  other.  Ann  Eliza's  ardour  carried  her  to  new  heights 
of  self-effacement,  and  she  invented  late  duties  in  the 
shop  in  order  to  leave  Evelina  and  her  suitor  longer  alone 
in  the  back  room.  Later  on,  when  she  tried  to  remember 
the  details  of  those  first  days,  few  came  back  to  her:  she 
knew  only  that  she  got  up  each  morning  with  the  sense 
of  having  to  push  the  leaden  hours  up  the  same  long 
steep  of  pain. 

Mr.  Ramy  came  daily  now.  Every  evening  he  and  his 
betrothed  went  out  for  a  stroll  around  the  Square,  and 
when  Evelina  came  in  her  cheeks  were  always  pink. 
"He's  kissed  her  under  that  tree  at  the  corner,  away 
from  the  lamp-post,"  Ann  Eliza  said  to  herself,  with  sud 
den  insight  into  unconjectured  things.  On  Sundays  they 
usually  went  for  the  whole  afternoon  to  the  Central 
Park,  and  Ann  Eliza,  from  her  scat  in  the  mortal  hush 
[  '371  ] 


BTJNNER    SISTERS 

of  the  back  room,  followed  step  by  step  their  long  slow 
beatific  walk. 

There  had  been,  as  yet,  no  allusion  to  their  marriage, 
except  that  Evelina  had  once  told  her  sister  that  Mr. 
Ramy  wished  them  to  invite  Mrs.  Hochmliller  and  Linda 
to  the  wedding.  The  mention  of  the  laundress  raised  a 
half-forgotten  fear  in  Ann  Eliza,  and  she  said  in  a  tone 
of  tentative  appeal:  "I  guess  if  I  was  you  I  wouldn't 
want  to  be  very  great  friends  with  Mrs.  Hochmtiller." 

Evelina  glanced  at  her  compassionately.  "I  guess  if 
you  was  me  you'd  want  to  do  everything  you  could  to 
please  the  man  you  loved.  It's  lucky,"  she  added  with 
glacial  irony,  "that  I'm  not  too  grand  for  Herman's 
friends." 

"Oh,"  Ann  Eliza  protested,  "that  ain't  what  I  mean 
— and  you  know  it  ain't.  Only  somehow  the  day  we  saw 
her  I  didn't  think  she  seemed  like  the  kinder  person 
you'd  want  for  a  friend." 

"I  guess  a  married  woman's  the  best  judge  of  such 
matters,"  Evelina  replied,  as  though  she  already  walked 
in  the  light  of  her  future  state. 

Arm  Eliza,  after  that,  kept  her  own  counsel.  She  saw 
that  Evelina  wanted  her  sympathy  as  little  as  her  ad 
monitions,  and  that  already  she  counted  for  nothing  in 
»-hefr  sister's  scheme  of  life.  To  Ann  Eliza's  idolatrous  ac-  \ 
ceptance  of  the  cruelties  of  fate  this  exclusion  seemed 
both  natural  and  just;  but  it  caused  her  the  most  lively    I 
[375] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

pain.  She  could  not  divest  her  love  for  Evelina  of  its  pas 
sionate  motherliness;  no  breath  of  reason  could  lower  it 
to  the  cool  temperature  of  sisterly  affection. 

She  was  then  passing,  as  she  thought,  through  the 
novitiate  of  her  pain;  preparing,  in  a  hundred  experi 
mental  ways,  for  the  solitude  awaiting  her  when  Evelina 
left.  It  was  true  that  it  would  be  a  tempered  loneliness. 
They  would  not  be  far  apart.  Evelina  would  "run  in" 
daily  from  the  clock-maker's;  they  would  doubtless  take 
supper  with  her  on  Sundays.  But  already  Ann  Eliza 
guessed  with  what  growing  perf unctoriness  her  sister  would 
fulfill  these  obligations;  she  even  foresaw  the  day  when, 
to  get  news  of  Evelina,  she  should  have  to  lock  the  shop 
at  nightfall  and  go  herself  to  Mr.  Ramy's  door.  But  on 
that  contingency  she  would  not  dwell.  "They  can  come 
to  me  when  they  want  to — they'll  always  find  me  here," 
she  simply  said  to  herself. 

One  evening  Evelina  came  in  flushed  and  agitated 
from  her  stroll  around  the  Square.  Ann  Eliza  saw  at  once 
that  something  had  happened;  but  the  new  habit  of 
reticence  checked  her  question. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  "Oh,  Ann  Eliza,  on'y  to  think 
what  he  says — "  (the  pronoun  stood  exclusively  for  Mr. 
Ramy).  "I  declare  I'm  so  upset  I  thought  the  people  in 
the  Square  would  notice  me.  Don't  I  look  queer?  He 
wants  to  get  married  right  off — this  very  next  week." 

"Next  week?" 

[376] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Yes.  So's  we  can  move  out  to  St.  Louis  right  away." 

"Him  and  you — move  out  to  St.  Louis?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  would  be  natural  for  him  to 
want  to  go  out  there  without  me,"  Evelina  simpered. 
"But  it's  all  so  sudden  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  He 
only  got  the  letter  this  morning.  Do  I  look  queer,  Ann 
Eliza?"  Her  eye  was  roving  for  the  mirror. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  Ann  Eliza  almost  harshly. 

"Well,  it's  a  mercy,"  Evelina  pursued  with  a  tinge 
of  disappointment.  "It's  a  regular  miracle  I  didn't  faint 
right  out  there  in  the  Square.  Herman's  so  thoughtless — 
he  just  put  the  letter  into  my  hand  without  a  word.  It's 
from  a  big  firm  out  there — the  Tiff  ny  of  St.  Louis,  he 
says  it  is — offering  him  a  place  in  their  clock-department. 
Seems  they  heard  of  him  through  a  German  friend  of 
his  that's  settled  out  there.  It's  a  splendid  opening,  and 
if  he  gives  satisfaction  they'll  raise  him  at  the  end  of  the 
year." 

She  paused,  flushed  with  the  importance  of  the  situa 
tion,  which  seemed  to  lift  her  once  for  all  above  the  dull 
level  of  her  former  life. 
.  ".Then  you'll  have  to  go  ?  "  came  at  last  from  Ann  Eliza. 

Evelina  stared.  "You  wouldn't  have  me  interfere  with 
his  prospects,  would  you?" 

"No — no.  I  on'y  meant — has  it  got  to  be  so  soon?" 
.    "Right  away,  I  tell  you — next  week.  Ain't  it  awful?" 
blushed  the  bride. 

[3771 


THINNER    SISTERS 

Well,  this  was  what  happened  to  mothers.  They  bore 
it,  Ann  Eliza  mused;  so  why  not  she?  Ah,  but  they  had 
their  own  chance  first;  she  had  had  no  chance  at  all. 
And  now  this  life  which  she  had  made  her  own  was  going 
from  her  forever;  had  gone,  already,  in  the  inner  and 
deeper  sense,  and  was  soon  to  vanish  in  even  its  outward 
nearness,  its  surface-communion  of  voice  and  eye.  At  that 
moment  even  the  thought  of  Evelina's  happiness  refused 
her  its  consolatory  ray;  or  its  light,  if  she  saw  it,  was 
too  remote  to  warm  her.  The  thirst  for  a  personal  and 
inalienable  tie,  for  pangs  and  problems  of  her  own,  was 
parching  Ann  Eliza's  soul :  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
never  again  gather  strength  to  look  her  loneliness  in  the 
face. 

The  trivial  obligations  of  the  moment  came  to  her  aid. 
Nursed  in  idleness  her  grief  would  have  mastered  her; 
but  the  needs  of  the  shop  and  the  back  room,  and  the 
preparations  for  Evelina's  marriage,  kept  the  tyrant 
under. 

Miss  Mellins,  true  to  her  anticipations,  had  been  called 
on  to  aid  in  the  making  of  the  wedding  dress,  and  she 
and  Ann  Eliza  were  bending  one  evening  over  the  breadths 
of  pearl-grey  cashmere  which,  in  spite  of  the  dress 
maker's  prophetic  vision  of  gored  satin,  had  been  judged 
most  suitable,  when  Evelina  came  into  the  room  alone. 

Ann  Eliza  had  already  had  occasion  to  notice  that  it 
\v;is  a  bad  sign  when  Mr.  Rainy  left  his  affianced  at  the 
[  378  ] 


BUNNER  SISTERS 

door.  It  generally  meant  that  Evelina  had  something  dis 
turbing  to  communicate,  and  Ann  Eliza's  first  glance 
told  her  that  this  time  the  news  was  grave. 

Miss  Mellins,  who  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door  and 
her  head  bent  over  her  sewing,  started  as  Evelina  came 
around  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

"Mercy,  Miss  Evelina!  I  declare  I  thought  you  was  a 
ghost,  the  way  you  crep'  in.  I  had  a  customer  once  up  in 
Forty-ninth  Street — a  lovely  young  woman  with  a  thirty- 
six  bust  and  a  waist  you  could  ha'  put  into  her  wedding 
ring — and  her  husband,  he  crep'  up  behind  her  that  way 
jest  for  a  joke,  and  frightened  her  into  a  fit,  and  when  she 
come  to « she  was  a  raving  maniac,  and  had  to  be  taken 
to  Bloomingdale  with  two  doctors  and  a  nurse  to  hold 
her  in  the  carriage,  and  a  lovely  baby  on'y  six  weeks 
old — and  there  she  is  to  this  day,  poor  creature." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  startle  you,"  said  Evelina. 

She  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  as  the  lamp 
light  fell  on  her  face  Ann  Eliza  saw  that  she  had  been 
crying. 

"You  do  look  dead-beat,"  Miss  Mellins  resumed,  after 
a  pause  of  soul-probing  scrutiny.  "I  guess  Mr.  Rainy  lugs 
you  round  that  Square  too  often.  You'll  walk  your  legs 
off  if  you  ain't  careful.  Men  don't  never  consider — they're 
all  alike.  Why,  I  had  a  cousin  once  that  was  engaged  to 
a  book-agent — 

"Maybe  we'd  better  put  away  the  work  for  to-night, 
[379] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Miss  Mellins,"  Ann  Eliza  interposed.  "I  guess  what  Eve 
lina  wants  is  a  good  night's  rest." 

"That's  so,"  assented  the  dress-maker.  "Have  you  got 
the  back  breadths  run  together,  Miss  Bunner?  Here's 
the  sleeves.  I'll  pin  'em  together."  She  drew  a  cluster  of 
pins  from  her  mouth,  in  which  she  seemed  to  secrete  them 
as  squirrels  stow  away  nuts.  "There,"  she  said,  rolling 
up  her  work,  "you  go  right  away  to  bed,  Miss  Evelina, 
and  we'll  set  up  a  little  later  to-morrow  night.  I  guess 
you're  a  mite  nervous,  ain't  you?  I  know  when  my  turn 
comes  I'll  be  scared  to  death." 

With  this  arch  forecast  she  withdrew,  and  Ann  Eliza, 
returning  to  the  back  room,  found  Evelina  still  listlessly 
seated  by  the  table.  True  to  her  new  policy  of  silence,  the 
elder  sister  set  about  folding  up  the  bridal  dress;  but 
suddenly  Evelina  said  in  a  harsh  unnatural  voice:  "There 
ain't  any  use  in  going  on  with  that." 

The  folds  slipped  from  Ann  Eliza's  hands. 

"Evelina  Bunner — what  you  mean?" 

"Jest  what  I  say.  It's  put  off." 

"Put  off— what's  put  off?" 

"Our  getting  married.  He  can't  take  me  to  St.  Louis. 
He  ain't  got  money  enough."  She  brought  the  words  out 
in  the  monotonous  tone  of  a  child  reciting  a  lesson. 

Ann  Eliza  picked  up  another  breadth  of  cashmere  and 
began  to  smooth  it  out.  "I  don't  understand,"  she  said 
at  length. 

[380] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Well,  it's  plain  enough.  The  journey's  fearfully  ex 
pensive,  and  we've  got  to  have  something  left  to  start 
with  when  we  get  out  there.  We've  counted  up,  and  he 
ain't  got  the  money  to  do  it — that's  all." 

"But  I  thought  he  was  going  right  into  a  splendid 
place." 

"So  he  is;  but  the  salary's  pretty  low  the  first  year, 
and  board's  very  high  in  St.  Louis.  He's  jest  got  another 
letter  from  his  German  friend,  and  he's  been  figuring  it 
out,  and  he's  afraid  to  chance  it.  He'll  have  to  go  alone." 

"But  there's  your  money — have  you  forgotten  that? 
The  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank." 

Evelina  made  an  impatient  movement.  "Of  course  I 
ain't  forgotten  it.  On'y  it  ain't  enough.  It  would  all  have 
to  go  into  buying  furniture,  and  if  he  was  took  sick  and 
lost  his  place  again  we  wouldn't  have  a  cent  left.  He  says 
he's  got  to  lay  by  another  hundred  dollars  before  he'll 
be  willing  to  take  me  out  there." 

For  a  while  Ann  Eliza  pondered  this  surprising  state 
ment;  then  she  ventured:  "Seems  to  me  he  might  have 
thought  of  it  before." 

In  an  instant  Evelina  was  aflame.  "I  guess  he  knows 
what's  right  as  well  as  you  or  me.  I'd  sooner  die  than  be 
a  burden  to  him." 

Ann  Eliza  made  no  answer.  The  clutch  of  an  unfor- 
mulated  doubt  had  checked  the  words  on  her  lips.  She  had 
meant,  on  the  day  of  her  sister's  marriage,  to  give  Evelina 
[381] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

the  other  half  of  their  common  savings;  but  something 
warned  her  not  to  say  so  now. 

The  sisters  undressed  without  farther  words.  After  they 
had  gone  to  bed,  and  the  light  had  been  put  out,  the 
sound  of  Evelina's  weeping  came  to  Ann  Eliza  in  the 
darkness,  but  she  lay  motionless  on  her  own  side  of  the 
bed,  out  of  contact  with  her  sister's  shaken  body.  Never 
had  she  felt  so  coldly  remote  from  Evelina. 

The  hours  of  the  night  moved  slowly,  ticked  off  with 
wearisome  insistence  by  the  clock  which  had  played  so 
prominent  a  part  in  their  lives.  Evelina's  sobs  still  stirred 
the  bed  at  gradually  lengthening  intervals,  till  at  length 
Ann  Eliza  thought  she  slept.  But  with  the  dawn  the 
eyes  of  the  sisters  met,  and  Ann  Eliza's  courage  failed 
her  as  she  looked  in  Evelina's  face. 

She  sat  up  in  bed  and  put  out  a  pleading  hand. 

"Don't  cry  so,  dearie.  Don't." 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it,"  Evelina  moaned. 

Ann  Eliza  stroked  her  quivering  shoulder.  "Don't, 
don't,"  she  repeated.  "If  you  take  the  other  hundred, 
won't  that  be  enough?  I  always  meant  to  give  it  to  you. 
On'y  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  till  your  wedding  day." 


[385] 


BUNNEB    SISTERS 


IX 


TTpVELINA'S  marriage  took  place  on  the  appointed 
"^^  day.  It  was  celebrated  in  the  evening,  in  the  chan 
try  of  the  church  which  the  sisters  attended,  and  after  it 
was  over  the  few  guests  who  had  been  present  repaired 
to  the  Bunner  Sisters'  basement,  where  a  wedding  supper 
awaited  them.  Ann  Eliza,  aided  by  Miss  Mellins  and  Mrs. 
Hawkins,  and  consciously  supported  by  the  sentimental 
interest  of  the  whole  street,  had  expended  her  utmost 
energy  on  the  decoration  of  the  shop  and  the  back  room. 
On  the  table  a  vase  of  white  chrysanthemums  stood  be 
tween  a  dish  of  oranges  and  bananas  and  an  iced  wedding- 
cake  wreathed  with  orange-blossoms  of  the  bride's  own 
making.  Autumn  leaves  studded  with  paper  roses  festooned 
the  what-not  and  the  chromo  of  the  Rock  of  Ages,  and  a 
wreath  of  yellow  immortelles  was  twined  about  the 
clock  which  Evelina  revered  as  the  mysterious  agent  of 
her  happiness. 

At  the  table  sat  Miss  Mellins,  profusely  spangled  and 
bangled>  her  head  sewing-girl,  a  pale  young  thing  who 
had  helped  with  Evelina's  outfit,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hawkins, 
with  Johnny,  their  eldest  boy,  and  Mrs.  Hochmiiller  and 
her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Hochmuller's  large  blonde  personality  seemed  to 
pervade  the  room  to  the  effacement  of  the  less  amply- 
[  383  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

proportioned  guests.  It  was  rendered  more  impressive  by 
a  dress  of  crimson  poplin  that  stood  out  from  her  in 
organ-like  folds;  and  Linda,  whom  Ann  Eliza  had  re 
membered  as  an  uncouth  child  with  a  sly  look  about 
the  eyes,  surprised  her  by  a  sudden  blossoming  into 
feminine  grace  such  as  sometimes  follows  on  a  gawky 
girlhood.  The  Hochmullers,  in  fact,  struck  the  dominant 
note  in  the  entertainment.  Beside  them  Evelina,  un 
usually  pale  in  her  grey  cashmere  and  white  bonnet,  looked 
like  a  faintly  washed  sketch  beside  a  brilliant  chromo; 
and  Mr.  Ramy,  doomed  to  the  traditional  insignificance  of 
the  bridegroom's  part,  made  no  attempt  to  rise  above 
his  situation.  Even  Miss  Mellins  sparkled  and  jingled  in 
vain  in  the  shadow  of  Mrs.  Hochmuller's  crimson  bulk; 
and  Ann  Eliza,  with  a  sense  of  vague  foreboding,  saw 
that  the  wedding  feast  centred  about  the  two  guests  she 
had  most  wished  to  exclude  from  it.  What  was  said  or 
done  while  they  all  sat  about  the  table  she  never  after 
ward  recalled:  the  long  hours  remained  in  her  memory 
as  a  whirl  of  high  colours  and  loud  voices,  from  which 
the  pale  presence  of  Evelina  now  and  then  emerged  like 
a  drowned  face  on  a  sunset-dabbled  sea. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Ramy  and  his  wife  started  for 
St.  Louis,  and  Ann  Eliza  was  left  alone.  Outwardly  the 
first  strain  of  parting  was  tempered  by  the  arrival  of 
Miss  Mellins,  Mrs.  Hawkins  and  Johnny,  who  dropped 
in  to  help  in  the  ungarlanding  and  tidying  up  of  the  back 
[  384  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

room.  Ann  Eliza  was  duly  grateful  for  their  kindness, 
but  the  "talking  over"  on  which  they  had  evidently 
counted  was  Dead  Sea  fruit  on  her  lips;  and  just  beyond 
the  familiar  warmth  of  their  presences  she  saw  the  form 
of  Solitude  at  her  door. 

Ann  Eliza  was  but  a  small  person  to  harbour  so  great 
a  guest,  and  a  trembling  sense  of  insufficiency  possessed 
her.  She  had  no  high  musings  to  offer  to  the  new  com 
panion  of  her  hearth.  Every  one  of  her  thoughts  had 
hitherto  turned  to  Evelina  and  shaped  itself  in  homely 
easy  words;  of  the  mighty  speech  of  silence  she  knew  not 
the  earliest  syllable. 

Everything  in  the  back  room  and  the  shop,  on  the 
second  day  after  Evelina's  going,  seemed  to  have  grown 
coldly  unfamiliar.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  place  had 
changed  with  the  changed  conditions  of  Ann  Eliza's  life. 
The  first  customer  who  opened  the  shop-door  startled  her 
like  a  ghost;  and  all  night  she  lay  tossing  on  her  side  of 
the  bed,  sinking  now  and  then  into  an  uncertain  doze 
from  which  she  would  suddenly  wake  to  reach  out  her 
hand  for  Evelina.  In  the  new  silence  surrounding  her 
jthe  walls  and  furniture  found  voice,  frightening  her  at 
dusk  and  midnight  with  strange  sighs  and  stealthy  whis 
pers.  Ghostly  hands  shook  the  window  shutters  or  rat- 
•tled  at  the  outer  latch,  and  once  she  grew  cold  at  the 
sound  of  a  step  like  Evelina's  stealing  through  the  dark 
•shop  to  die  out  on  the  threshold.  In  time,  of  course,  she 
[  385  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

found  an  explanation  for  these  noises,  telling  herself  that 
the  bedstead  was  warping,  that  Miss  Mellins  trod  heavily 
overhead,  or  that  the  thunder  of  passing  beer-waggons 
shook  the  door-latch;  but  the  hours  leading  up  to  these 
conclusions  were  full  of  the  floating  terrors  that  harden 
into  fixed  foreboding.  Worst  of  all  were  the  solitary  meals, 
when  she  absently  continued  to  set  aside  the  largest  slice 
of  pie  for  Evelina,  and  to  let  the  tea  grow  cold  while  she 
waited  for  her  sister  to  help  herself  to  the  first  cup.  Miss 
Mellins,  coming  in  on  one  of  these  sad  repasts,  suggested 
the  acquisition  of  a  cat;  but  Ann  Eliza  shook  her  head. 
She  had  never  been  used  to  animals,  and  she  felt  the 
vague  shrinking  of  the  pious  from  creatures  divided  from 
her  by  the  abyss  of  soullessness. 

At  length,  after  ten  empty  days,  Evelina's  first  letter 
came. 

"My  dear  Sister,"  she  wrote,  in  her  pinched  Spen- 
cerian  hand,  "it  seems  strange  to  be  in  this  great  City 
so  far  from  home  alone  with  him  I  have  chosen  for  life, 
but  marriage  has  it*  solemn  duties  which  those  who  are 
not  can  never  hope  to  understand,  and  happier  perhaps 
for  this  reason,  life  for  them  has  only  simple  tasks  and 
pleasures,  but  those  who  must  take  thought  for  others 
must  be  prepared  to  do  their  duty  in  whatever  station 
it  has  pleased  the  Almighty  to  call  them.  Not  that  I  have 
cause  to  complain,  my  dear  Husband  is  all  love  and  devo- 
[3861 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

tion,  but  being  absent  all  day  at  his  business  how  can  I 
help  but  feel  lonesome  at  times,  as  the  poet  says  it  is  hard 
for  they  that  love  to  live  apart,  and  I  often  wonder,  my 
dear  Sister,  how  you  are  getting  along  alone  in  the  store, 
may  you  never  experience  the  feelings  of  solitude  I  have 
underwent  since  I  came  here.  We  are  boarding  now,  but 
soon  expect  to  find  rooms  and  change  our  place  of  Resi 
dence,  then  I  shall  have  all  the  care  of  a  household  to 
bear,  but  such  is  the  fate  of  those  who  join  their  Lot 
with  others,  they  cannot  hope  to  escape  from  the  burdens 
of  Life,  nor  would  I  ask  it,  I  would  not  live  alway,  but 
white  I  live  would  always  pray  for  strength  to  do  my 
duty.  This  city  is  not  near  as  large  or  handsome  as  New 
York,  but  had  my  lot  been  cast  in  a  Wilderness  I  hope  I 
should  not  repine,  such  never  was  my  nature,  and  they 
who  exchange  their  independence  for  the  sweet  name  of 
Wife  must  be  prepared  to  find  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 
nor  I  would  not  expect  like  you  to  drift  down  the  stream 
of  Life  unfettered  and  serene  as  a  Summer  cloud,  such  is 
not  my  fate,  but  come  what  may  will  always  find  in  me 
a  resigned  and  prayerful  Spirit,  and  hoping  this  finds  you 
as  well  as  it  leaves  me,  I  remain,  my  dear  Sister, 
"Yours  truly, 

"EVELINA  B.  RAMY." 
. 

Ann  Eliza  had  always  secretly  admired  the  oratorical 
and  impersonal  tone  of  Evelina's  letters;  but  the  few  she 
[387] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

had  previously  read,  having  been  addressed  to  school 
mates  or  distant  relatives,  had  appeared  in  the  light  of 
literary  compositions  rather  than  as  records  of  personal 
experience.  Now  she  could  not  but  wish  that  Evelina  had 
laid  aside  her  swelling  periods  for  a  style  more  suited  to 
the  chronicling  of  homely  incidents.  She  read  the  letter 
again  and  again,  seeking  for  a  clue  to  what  her  sister  was 
really  doing  and  thinking;  but  after  each  reading  she 
emerged  impressed  but  unenlightened  from  the  laby 
rinth  of  Evelina's  eloquence. 

During  the  early  winter  she  received  two  or  three 
more  letters  of  the  same  kind,  each  enclosing  in  its  loose 
husk  of  rhetoric  a  smaller  kernel  of  fact.  By  dint  of  pa 
tient  interlinear  study,  Ann  Eliza  gathered  from  them 
that  Evelina  and  her  husband,  after  various  costly  experi 
ments  in  boarding,  had  been  reduced  to  a  tenement- 
house  flat;  that  living  in  St.  Louis  was  more  expensive 
than  they  had  supposed,  and  that  Mr.  Ramy  was  kept 
out  late  at  night  (why,  at  a  jeweller's,  Ann  Eliza  won 
dered?)  and  found  bis  position  less  satisfactory  than  he 
had  been  led  to  expect.  Toward  February  the  letters  fell 
off;  and  finally  they  ceased  to  come. 

At  first  Ann  Eliza  wrote,  shyly  but  persistently,  en 
treating  for  more  frequent  news;  then,  as  one  appeal 
after  another  was  swallowed  up  in  the  mystery  of  Eve 
lina's  protracted  silence,  vague  fears  began  to  assail  the 
elder  sister.  Perhaps  Evelina  was  ill,  and  with  no  one  to 
nurse  her  but  a  man  who  could  not  even  make  himself 
[388] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

a  cup  of  tea !  Ann  Eliza  recalled  the  layer  of  dust  in  Mr. 
Ramy's  shop,  and  pictures  of  domestic  disorder  mingled 
with  the  more  poignant  vision  of  her  sister's  illness.  But 
surely  if  Evelina  were  ill  Mr.  Ramy  would  have  written. 
He  wrote  a  small  neat  hand,  and  epistolary  communica 
tion  was  not  an  insuperable  embarrassment  to  him. 
The  too  probable  alternative  was  that  both  the  unhappy 
pair  had  been  prostrated  by  some  disease  which  left  them 
powerless  to  summon  her — for  summon  her  they  surely 
would,  Ann  Eliza  with  unconscious  cynicism  reflected, 
if  she  or  her  small  economies  could  be  of  use  to  them! 
The  more  she  strained  her  eyes  into  the  mystery,  the 
darker  it  grew;  and  her  lack  of  initiative,  her  inability  to 
imagine  what  steps  might  be  taken  to  trace  the  lost  in 
distant  places,  left  her  benumbed  and  helpless. 

At  last  there  floated  up  from  some  depth  of  troubled 
memory  the  name  of  the  firm  of  St.  Louis  jewellers  by 
whom  Mr.  Ramy  was  employed.  After  much  hesitation, 
and  considerable  effort,  she  addressed  to  them  a  timid 
request  for  news  of  her  brother-in-law;  and  sooner  than 
she  could  have  hoped  the  answer  reached  her. 

"DEAR  MADAM, 

"In  reply  to  yours  of  the  29th  ult.  we  beg  to  state  that 
the  party  you  refer  to  was  discharged  from  our  employ 
a  month  ago.  We  are  sorry  we  are  unable  to  furnish  you 
with  his  address. 

"Yours  respectfully, 

"LuowiG  AND  HAMMERBUSCH." 
[  389  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Ann  Eliza  read  and  re-read  the  curt  statement  in  a 
stupor  of  distress.  She  had  lost  her  last  trace  of  Evelina. 
All  that  night  she  lay  awake,  revolving  the  stupendous 
project  of  going  to  St.  Louis  in  search  of  her  sister;  but 
though  she  pieced  together  her  few  financial  possibilities 
with  the  ingenuity  of  a  brain  used  to  fitting  odd  scraps 
into  patch- work  quilts,  she  woke  to  the  cold  daylight 
fact  that  she  could  not  raise  the  money  for  her  fare.  Her 
wedding  gift  to  Evelina  had  left  her  without  any  re 
sources  beyond  her  daily  earnings,  and  these  had  steadily 
dwindled  as  the  winter  passed.  She  had  long  since  re 
nounced  her  weekly  visit  to  the  butcher,  and  had  reduced 
her  other  expenses  to  the  narrowest  measure;  but  the 
most  systematic  frugality  had  not  enabled  her  to  put  by 
any  money.  In  spite  of  her  dogged  efforts  to  maintain  the 
prosperity  of  the  little  shop,  her  sister's  absence  had 
already  told  on  its  business.  Now  that  Ann  Eliza  had  to 
carry  the  bundles  to  the  dyer's  herself,  the  customers  who 
called  in  her  absence,  finding  the  shop  locked,  too  often 
went  elsewhere.  Moreover,  after  several  stern  but  un 
availing  efforts,  she  had  had  to  give  up  the  trimming  of 
bonnets,  which  in  Evelina's  hands  had  been  the  most 
lucrative  as  well  as  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  busi 
ness.  This  change,  to  the  passing  female  eye,  robbed  the 
shop  window  of  its  chief  attraction;  and  when  painful  ex 
perience  had  convinced  the  regular  customers  of  the 
Bunner  Sisters  of  Ann  Eliza's  lack  of  millinery  skill  they 
[3901 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

began  to  lose  faith  in  her  ability  to  curl  a  feather  or  even 
"freshen  up"  a  bunch  of  flowers.  The  time  came  when 
Arm  Eliza  had  almost  made  up  her  mind  to  speak  to  the 
lady  with  puffed  sleeves,  who  had  always  looked  at  her 
so  kindly,  and  had  once  ordered  a  hat  of  Evelina.  Perhaps 
the  lady  with  puffed  sleeves  would  be  able  to  get  her  a 
little  plain  sewing  to  do;  or  she  might  recommend  the  shop 
to  friends.  Ann  Eliza,  with  this  possibility  in  view,  rum 
maged  out  of  a  drawer  the  fly-blown  remainder  of  the 
business  cards  which  the  sisters  had  ordered  in  the  first 
flush  of  their  commercial  adventure;  but  when  the  lady 
with  puffed  sleeves  finally  appeared  she  was  in  deep 
mourning,  and  wore  so  sad  a  look  that  Ann  Eliza  dared 
not  speak.  She  came  in  to  buy  some  spools  of  black  thread 
and  silk,  and  in  the  doorway  she  turned  back  to  say: 
"I  am  going  away  to-morrow  for  a  long  time.  I  hope  you 
will  have  a  pleasant  winter."  And  the  door  shut  on  her. 

One  day  not  long  after  this  it  occurred  to  Ann  Eliza 
to  go  to  Hoboken  in  quest  of  Mrs.  Hochmuller.  Much  as 
she  shrank  from  pouring  her  distress  into  that  particular 
far,  her  anxiety  had  carried  her  beyond  such  reluctances; 
but  when  she  began  to  think  the  matter  over  she  was 
faced  by  a  new  difficulty.  On  the  occasion  of  her  only 
visit  to  Mrs.  Hochmuller, .  she  and  Evelina  had  suffered 
themselves  to  be  led  there  by  Mr.  Rainy;  and  Ann  Eliza 
now  perceived  that  she  did  not  even  know  the  name  of 
the  laundress's  suburb,  much  less  that  of  the  street  in 
[391] 


BUN  NEB    SISTERS 

which  she  lived.  But  she  must  have  news  of  Evelina,  and 
no  obstacle  was  great  enough  to  thwart  her. 

Though  she  longed  to  turn  to  some  one  for  advice  she 
disliked  to  expose  her  situation  to  Miss  Mellins's  search 
ing  eye,  and  at  first  she  could  think  of  no  other  confidant. 
Then  she  remembered  Mrs.  Hawkins,  or  rather  her  hus 
band,  who,  though  Ann  Eliza  had  always  thought  him  a 
dull  uneducated  man,  was  probably  gifted  with  the  mys 
terious  masculine  faculty  of  finding  out  people's  ad 
dresses.  It  went  hard  with  Ann  Eliza  to  trust  her  secret 
even  to  the  mild  ear  of  Mrs.  Hawkins,  but  at  least  she 
was  spared  the  cross-examination  to  which  the  dress 
maker  would  have  subjected  her.  The  accumulating  pres 
sure  of  domestic  cares  had  so  crushed  in  Mrs.  Hawkins 
any  curiosity  concerning  the  affairs  of  others  that  she 
received  her  visitor's  confidence  with  an  almost  masculine 
indifference,  while  she  rocked  her  teething  baby  on  one 
arm  and  with  the  other  tried  to  check  the  acrobatic  im 
pulses  of  the  next  in  age. 

"My,  my,"  she  simply  said  as  Ann  Eliza  ended.  "Keep 
still  now,  Arthur:  Miss  Bunner  don't  want  you  to  jump 
up  and  down  on  her  foot  to-day.  And  what  are  you  gap 
ing  at,  Johnny?  Run  right  off  and  play,"  she  added, 
turning  sternly  to  her  eldest,  who,  because  he  was  the 
least  naughty,  usually  bore  the  brunt  of  her  wrath  against 
the  others. 

"Well,  perhaps  Mr.  Hawkins  can  help  you,"  Mrs. 
[392] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Hawkins  continued  meditatively,  while  the  children, 
after  scattering  at  her  bidding,  returned  to  their  previous 
pursuits  like  flies  settling  down  on  the  spot  from  which 
an  exasperated  hand  has  swept  them.  "I'll  send  him  right 
round  the  minute  he  comes  in,  and  you  can  tell  him  the 
whole  story.  I  wouldn't  wonder  but  what  he  can  find 
that  Mrs.  Hochmuller's  address  in  the  d'rectory.  I  know 
they've  got  one  where  he  works." 

"I'd  be  real  thankful  if  he  could,"  Ann  Eliza  mur 
mured,  rising  from  her  seat  with  the  factitious  sense  of 
lightness  that  comes  from  imparting  a  long-hidden  dread. 


X 


.  HAWKINS  proved  himself  worthy  of  his  wife's 
faith  in  his  capacity.  He  learned  from  Ann  Eliza 
as  much  as  she  could  tell  him  about  Mrs.  Hochmiiller  and 
returned  the  next  evening  with  a  scrap  of  paper  bearing 
her  address,  beneath  which  Johnny  (the  family  scribe) 
had  written  in  a  large  round  hand  the  names  of  the  streets 
that  led  there  from  the  ferry. 

A.nn  Eliza  lay  awake  all  that  night,  repeating  over  and 
over  again  the  directions  Mr.  Hawkins  had  given  her. 
He  was  a  kind  man,  and  she  knew  he  would  willingly 
have  gone  with  her  to  Hoboken;  indeed  she  read  in  his 
timid  eye  the  half-formed  intention  of  offering  to  accom 
pany  her — but  on  such  an  errand  she  preferred  to  go  alone. 
[393] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

The  next  Sunday,  accordingly,  she  set  out  early,  and 
without  much  trouble  found  her  way  to  the  ferry.  Nearly 
a  year  had  passed  since  her  previous  visit  to  Mrs.  Hoch- 
miiller,  and  a  chilly  April  breeze  smote  her  face  as  she 
stepped  on  the  boat.  Most  of  the  passengers  were  huddled 
together  in  the  cabin,  and  Ann  Eliza  shrank  into  its 
obscurest  corner,  shivering  under  the  thin  black  mantle 
which  had  seemed  so  hot  in  July.  She  began  to  feel  a  little 
bewildered  as  she  stepped  ashore,  but  a  paternal  police 
man  put  her  into  the  right  car,  and  as  in  a  dream  she 
found  herself  retracing  the  way  to  Mrs.  Hochmiiller's 
door.  She  had  told  the  conductor  the  name  of  the  street 
at  which  she  wished  to  get  out,  and  presently  she  stood 
in  the  biting  wind  at  the  corner  near  the  beer-saloon, 
where  the  sun  had  once  beat  down  on  her  so  fiercely. 
At  length  an  empty  car  appeared,  its  yellow  flank  em 
blazoned  with  the  name  of  Mrs.  Hochmiiller's  suburb, 
and  Ann  Eliza  was  presently  jolting  past  the  narrow  brick 
houses  islanded  between  vacant  lots  like  giant  piles  in  a 
desolate  lagoon.  When  the  car  reached  the  end  of  its 
journey  she  got  out  and  stood  for  some  time  trying  to 
remember  which  turn  Mr.  Ramy  had  taken.  She  had  just 
made  up  her  mind  to  ask  the  car-driver  when  he  shook 
the  reins  on  the  backs  of  his  lean  horses,  and  the  car,  still 
empty,  jogged  away  toward  Hoboken. 

Ann  Eliza,  left  alone  by  the  roadside,  began  to  move 
/jiutiously  forward,  looking  about  for  a  small  red  house 
[394] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

with  a  gable  overhung  by  an  elm- tree;  but  everything 
about  her  seemed  unfamiliar  and  forbidding.  One  or  two 
surly  looking  men  slouched  past  with  inquisitive  glances, 
and  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  stop  and  speak  to 
them. 

At  length  a  tow-headed  boy  came  out  of  a  swinging 
door  suggestive  of  illicit  conviviality,  and  to  him  Ann 
Eliza  ventured  to  confide  her  difficulty.  The  offer  of  five 
cents  fired  him  with  an  instant  willingness  to  lead  her 
to  Mrs.  Hochmiiller,  and  he  was  soon  trotting  past  the 
stone-cutter's  yard  with  Ann  Eliza  in  his  wake. 

Another  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  to  the  little 
red  house,  and  having  rewarded  her  guide,  Ann  Eliza 
unlatched  the  gate  and  walked  up  to  the  door.  Her  heart 
was  beating  violently,  and  she  had  to  lean  against  the 
door-post  to  compose  her  twitching  lips:  she  had  not 
known  till  that  moment  how  much  it  was  going  to  hurt 
her  to  speak  of  Evelina  to  Mrs.  Hochmiiller.  As  her  agi 
tation  subsided  she  began  to  notice  how  much  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  house  had  changed.  It  was  not  only  that 
winter  had  stripped  the  elm,  and  blackened  the  flower- 
borders:  the  house  itself  had  a  debased  and  deserted  air. 
The  window-panes  were  cracked  and  dirty,  and  one  or 
two  shutters  swung  dismally  on  loosened  hinges. 

She  rang  several  times  before  the  door  was  opened. 
At  length  an  Irish  woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head 
and  a  baby  in  her  arms  appeared  on  the  threshold,  and 
[395] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

glancing  past  her  into  the  narrow  passage  Ann  Eli/a 
saw  that  Mrs.  Hochmiiller's  neat  abode  had  deteriorated 
as  much  within  as  without. 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  the  woman  stared.  "Mrs. 
who,  did  ye  say?" 

"Mrs.  Hochmiiller.  This  is  surely  her  house?" 

"No,  it  ain't  neither,"  said  the  woman  turning  away. 

"Oh,  but  wait,  please,"  Ann  Eliza  entreated.  "I  can't 
be  mistaken.  I  mean  the  Mrs.  Hochmiiller  who  takes  in 
washing.  I  came  out  to  see  her  last  June." 

"Oh,  the  Dutch  washerwoman  is  it — her  that  used  to 
live  here?  She's  been  gone  two  months  and  more.  It's 
Mike  McNulty  lives  here  now.  Whisht!"  to  the  baby, 
who  had  squared  his  mouth  for  a  howl. 

Ann  Eliza's  knees  grew  weak.  "Mrs.  Hochmiiller  gone? 
But  where  has  she  gone?  She  must  be  somewhere  round 
here.  Can't  you  tell  me?" 

"Sure  an'  I  can't,"  said  the  woman.  "She  wint  away 
before  iver  we  come." 

"Dalia  Geoghegan,  will  ye  bring  the  choild  in  out  av 
the  cowld?"  cried  an  irate  voice  from  within. 

"Please  wait — oh,  please  wait,"  Ann  Eliza  insisted. 
"You  see  I  must  find  Mrs.  Hochmiiller." 

"Why  don't  ye  go  and  look  for  her  thin?"  the  woman 
returned,  slamming  the  door  in  her  face. 

She  stood  motionless  on  the  door-step,  dazed  by  the 
immensity  of  her  disappointment,  till  a  burst  of  loud 
[396] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

voices  inside  the  house  drove  her  down  the  path  and  out 
of  the  gate. 

Even  then  she  could  not  grasp  what  had  happened, 
and  pausing  in  the  road  she  looked  back  at  the  house, 
half  hoping  that  Mrs.  Hochmuller's  once  detested  face 
might  appear  at  one  of  the  grimy  windows. 

She  was  roused  by  an  icy  wind  that  seemed  to  spring 
up  suddenly  from  the  desolate  scene,  piercing  her  thin 
dress  like  gauze;  and  turning  away  she  began  to  retrace 
her  steps.  She  thought  of  enquiring  for  Mrs.  Hochmuller 
at  some  of  the  neighbouring  houses,  but  their  look  was  so 
unfriendly  that  she  walked  on  without  making  up  her 
mind  at  which  door  to  ring.  When  she  reached  the  horse- 
car  terminus  a  car  was  just  moving  off  toward  Hoboken, 
and  for  nearly  an  hour  she  had  to  wait  on  the  corner  in 
the  bitter  wind.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  stiff  with  cold 
when  the  car  at  length  loomed  into  sight  again,  and  she 
thought  of  stopping  somewhere  on  the  way  to  the  ferry 
for  a  cup  of  tea;  but  before  the  region  of  lunch-rooms  was 
reached  she  had  grown  so  sick  and  dizzy  that  the  thought 
of  food  was  repulsive.  At  length  she  found  herself  on  the 
ferry-boat,  in  the  soothing  stuffiness  of  the  crowded 
cabin;  then  came  another  interval  of  shivering  on  a  street- 
corner,  another  long  jolting  journey  in  a  "cross-town" 
car  that  smelt  of  damp  straw  and  tobacco;  and  lastly,  in 
the  cold  spring  dusk,  she  unlocked  her  door  and  groped 
her  wa3T  through  the  shop  to  her  fireless  bedroom. 
[397] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Hawkins,  dropping  in  to  hear 
the  result  of  the  trip,  found  Ann  Eliza  sitting  behind  the 
counter  wrapped  in  an  old  shawl. 

"Why,  Miss  Bunner,  you're  sick!  You  must  have 
fever — your  face  is  just  as  red !" 

"It's  nothing.  I  guess  I  caught  cold  yesterday  on  the 
ferry-boat,"  Ann  Eliza  acknowledged. 

"And  it's  jest  like  a  vault  in  here!"  Mrs.  Hawkins  re 
buked  her.  "Let  me  feel  your  hand — it's  burning.  Now, 
Miss  Bunner,  you've  got  to  go  right  to  bed  this  very 
minute." 

"Oh,  but  I  can't,  Mrs.  Hawkins."  Ann  Eliza  attempted 
a  wan  smile.  "You  forget  there  ain't  nobody  but  me  to 
tend  the  store." 

"I  guess  you  won't  tend  it  long  neither,  if  you  ain't 
careful,"  Mrs.  Hawkins  grimly  rejoined.  Beneath  her 
placid  exterior  she  cherished  a  morbid  passion  for  disease 
and  death,  and  the  sight  of  Ann  Eliza's  suffering  had 
roused  her  from  her  habitual  indifference.  "There  ain't 
so  many  folks  comes  to  the  store  anyhow,"  she  went  on 
with  unconscious  cruelty,  "and  I'll  go  right  up  and  see 
if  Miss  Mellins  can't  spare  one  of  her  girls." 

Ann  Eliza,  too  weary  to  resist,  allowed  Mrs.  Hawkins 
to  put  her  to  bed  and  make  a  cup  of  tea  over  the  stove, 
while  Miss  Mellins,  always  good-naturedly  responsive 
to  any  appeal  for  help,  sent  down  the  weak-eyed  little 
girl  to  deal  with  hypothetical  customers. 
[398] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Ann  Eliza,  having  so  far  abdicated  her  independence, 
sank  into  sudden  apathy.  As  far  as  she  could  remember, 
it  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  been  taken 
care  of  instead  of  taking  care,  and  there  was  a  momen 
tary  relief  in  the  surrender.  She  swallowed  the  tea  like 
an  obedient  child,  allowed  a  poultice  to  be  applied  to  her 
aching  chest  and  uttered  no  protest  when  a  fire  was  kindled 
in  the  rarely  used  grate;  but  as  Mrs.  Hawkins  bent  over 
to  "settle"  her  pillows  she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  to 
whisper:  "Oh,  Mrs.  Hawkins,  Mrs.  Hochmiiller  warn't 
there."  The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"She  warn't  there?  Has  she  moved?" 

"Over  two  months  ago — and  they  don't  know  where 
she's  gone.  Oh  what'll  I  do,  Mrs.  Hawkins  ? " 

"There,  there,  Miss  Bunner.  You  lay  still  and  don't 
fret.  I'll  ask  Mr.  Hawkins  soon  as  ever  he  comes  home." 

Ann  Eliza  murmured  her  gratitude,  and  Mrs.  Hawkins, 
bending  down,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "Don't  you 
fret,"  she  repeated,  in  the  voice  with  which  she  soothed 
her  children. 

For  over  a  week  Ann  Eliza  lay  in  bed,  faithfully  nursed 
by  her  two  neighbours,  while  the  weak-eyed  child,  and 
the  pale  sewing  girl  who  had  helped  to  finish  Evelina's 
wedding  dress,  took  turns  in  minding  the  shop.  Every 
morning,  when  her  friends  appeared,  Ann  Eliza  lifted  her 
head  to  ask:  "Is  there  a  letter?"  and  at  their  gentle 
'negative  sank  back  in  silence.  Mrs.  Hawkins,  for  several 
[390] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

days,  spoke  no  more  of  her  promise  to  consult  her  hus 
band  as  to  the  best  way  of  tracing  Mrs.  Hochmliller;  and 
dread  of  fresh  disappointment  kept  Ann  Eliza  from  bring 
ing  up  the  subject. 

But  the  following  Sunday  evening,  as  she  sat  for  the 
first  time  bolstered  up  in  her  rocking-chair  near  the  stove, 
while  Miss  Mellins  studied  the  Police  Gazette  beneath  the 
lamp,  there  came  a  knock  on  the  shop-door  and  Mr. 
Hawkins  entered. 

Ann  Eliza's  first  glance  at  his  plain  friendly  face  showed 
her  he  had  news  to  give,  but  though  she  no  longer  at 
tempted  to  hide  her  anxiety  from  Miss  Mellins,  her  lips 
trembled  too  much  to  let  her  speak. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Bunner,"  said  Mr.  Hawkins  in 
his  dragging  voice.  "I've  been  over  to  Hoboken  all  day 
looking  round  for  Mrs.  Hochmuller." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hawkins — you  have?" 

"I  made  a  thorough  search,  but  I'm  sorry  to  say  it 
was  no  use.  She's  left  Hoboken — moved  clear  away,  and 
nobody  seems  to  know  where." 

"It  was  real  good  of  you,  Mr.  Hawkins."  Ann  Eliza's 
voice  struggled  up  in  a  faint  whisper  through  the  sub 
merging  tide  of  her  disappointment. 

Mr.  Hawkins,  in  his  embarrassed  sense  of  being  the 
bringer  of  bad  news,  stood  before  her  uncertainly;  then  he 
turned  to  go.  "No  trouble  at  all,"  he  paused  to  assure 
her  from  the  doorway. 

[400] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

She  wanted  to  speak  again,  to  detain  him,  to  ask  him 
to  advise  her;  but  the  words  caught  in  her  throat  and 
she  lay  back  silent. 

The  next  day  she  got  up  early,  and  dressed  and  bon 
neted  herself  with  twitching  fingers.  She  waited  till  the 
weak-eyed  child  appeared,  and  having  laid  on  her  minute 
instructions  as  to  the  care  of  the  shop,  she  slipped  out  into 
the  street.  It  had  occurred  to  her  in  one  of  the  weary 
watches  of  the  previous  night  that  she  might  go  to  Tif 
fany's  and  make  enquiries  about  Ramy's  past.  Possibly 
in  that  way  she  might  obtain  some  information  that 
would  suggest  a  new  way  of  reaching  Evelina.  She  was 
guiltily  aware  that  Mrs.  Hawkins  and  Miss  Mellins  would 
be  angry  with  her  for  venturing  out  of  doors,  but  she 
knew  she  should  never  feel  any  better  till  she  had  news 
of  Evelina. 

The  morning  air  was  sharp,  and  as  she  turned  to  face 
the  wind  she  felt  so  weak  and  unsteady  that  she  won 
dered  if  she  should  ever  get  as  far  as  Union  Square;  but 
by  walking  very  slowly,  and  standing  still  now  and  then 
when  she  could  do  so  without  being  noticed,  she  found 
herself  at  last  before  the  jeweller's  great  glass  doors. 

It  was  still  so  early  that  there  were  no  purchasers  in 
the  shop,  and  she  felt  herself  the  centre  of  innumerable 
unemployed  eyes  as  she  moved  forward  between  long 
lines  of  show-cases  glittering  with  diamonds  and  silver. 

She  was  glancing  about  in  the  hope  of  finding  the 
[401] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

clock-department  without  having  to  approach  one  of 
the  impressive  gentlemen  who  paced  the  empty  aisles, 
when  she  attracted  the  attention  of  one  of  the  most  im 
pressive  of  the  number. 

The  formidable  benevolence  with  which  he  enquired 
what  he  could  do  for  her  made  her  almost  despair  of  ex 
plaining  herself;  but  she  finally  disentangled  from  a  flurry 
of  wrong  beginnings  the  request  to  be  shown  to  the 
clock-department. 

The  gentleman  considered  her  thoughtfully.  "May  I 
ask  what  style  of  clock  you  are  looking  for?  Would  it  be 
for  a  wedding-present,  or — " 

The  irony  of  the  allusion  filled  Ann  Eliza's  veins  with 
sudden  strength.  "I  don't  want  to  buy  a  clock  at  all.  I 
want  to  see  the  head  of  the  department." 

"Mr.  Loomis?"  His  stare  still  weighed  her — then  he 
seemed  to  brush  aside  the  problem  she  presented  as  be 
neath  his  notice.  "Oh,  certainly.  Take  the  elevator  to  the 
second  floor.  Next  aisle  to  the  left."  He  waved  her  down 
the  endless  perspective  of  show-cases. 

Ann  Eliza  followed  the  line  of  his  lordly  gesture,  and  a 
swift  ascent  brought  her  to  a  great  hall  full  of  the  buzzing 
and  booming  of  thousands  of  clocks.  Whichever  way  she 
looked,  clocks  stretched  away  from  her  in  glittering  in 
terminable  vistas:  clocks  of  all  sizes  and  voices,  from  the 
bell-tliroated  giant  of  the  hallway  to  the  chirping  dress 
ing-table  toy;  tall  clocks  of  mahogany  and  brass  with 
chimes;  clocks  of  bronze,  glass,  porcelain,  of 
[  402  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

every  possible  size,  voice  and  configuration;  and  between 
their  serried  ranks,  along  the  polished  floor  of  the  aisles, 
moved  the  languid  forms  of  other  gentlemanly  floor 
walkers,  waiting  for  their  duties  to  begin. 

One  of  them  soon  approached,  and  Ann  Eliza  repeated 
her  request.  He  received  it  affably. 

"Mr.  Loomis?  Go  right  down  to  the  office  at  the  other 
end."  He  pointed  to  a  kind  of  box  of  ground  glass  and 
highly  polished  panelling. 

As  she  thanked  him  he  turned  to  one  of  his  companions 
and  said  something  in  which  she  caught  the  name  of  Mr. 
Loomis,  and  which  was  received  with  an  appreciative 
chuckle.  She  suspected  herself  of  being  the  object  of  the 
pleasantry,  and  straightened  her  thin  shoulders  under 
her  mantle. 

The  door  of  the  office  stood  open,  and  within  sat  a 
gray-bearded  man  at  a  desk.  He  looked  up  kindly,  and 
again  she  asked  for  Mr.  Loomis. 

"I'm  Mr.  Loomis.  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

He  was  much  less  portentous  than  the  others,  though 
she  guessed  him  to  be  above  them  in  authority;  and  en 
couraged  by  his  tone  she  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of 
the  chair  he  waved  her  to. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  troubling  you,  sir.  I  came  to 
ask  if  you  could  tell  me  anything  about  Mr.  Herman 
Ramy.  He  was  employed  here  in  the  clock-department 
two  or  three  years  ago." 

Mr.  Loomis  showed  no  recognition  of  the  name. 
[  405  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Ramy?  When  was  he  discharged?" 

"I  don't  har'ly  know.  He  was  very  sick,  and  when  he 
got  well  his  place  had  been  filled.  He  married  my  sister 
last  October  and  they  went  to  St.  Louis,  I  ain't  had  any 
news  of  them  for  over  two  months,  and  she's  my  only 
sister,  and  I'm  most  crazy  worrying  about  her." 

"I  see."  Mr.  Loomis  reflected.  "In  what  capacity  was 
Ramy  employed  here?"  he  asked  after  a  moment. 

"He — he  told  us  that  he  was  one  of  the  heads  of  the 
clock-department,"  Ann  Eliza  stammered,  overswept  by 
a  sudden  doubt. 

"That  was  probably  a  slight  exaggeration.  But  I  can 
tell  you  about  him  by  referring  to  our  books.  The  name 
again?" 

"Ramy — Herman  Ramy." 

There  ensued  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the  flutter 
of  leaves  as  Mr.  Loomis  turned  over  his  ledgers.  Pres 
ently  he  looked  up,  keeping  his  finger  between  the 
pages. 

"Here  it  is — Herman  Ramy.  He  was  one  of  our  ordi 
nary  workmen,  and  left  us  three  years  and  a  half  ago 
last  June." 

"On  account  of  sickness?"  Ann  Eliza  faltered. 

Mr.  Loomis  appeared  to  hesitate;  then  he  said:  "I 
see  no  mention  of  sickness."  Ann  Eliza  felt  his  compas 
sionate  eyes  on  her  again.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you 
the  truth.  He  was  discharged  for  drug-taking.  A  capable 
[404] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

workman,  but  we  couldn't  keep  him  straight.  I'm  sorry 
to  have  to  tell  you  this,  but  it  seems  fairer,  since  you  say 
you're  anxious  about  your  sister." 

The  polished  sides  of  the  office  vanished  from  Ann 
Eliza's  sight,  and  the  cackle  of  the  innumerable  clocks 
came  to  her  like  the  yell  of  waves  in  a  storm.  She  tried  to 
speak  but  could  not;  tried  to  get  to  her  feet,  but  the 
floor  was  gone. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  Mr.  Loomis  repeated,  closing  the 
ledger.  "I  remember  the  man  perfectly  now.  He  used  to 
disappear  every  now  and  then,  and  turn  up  again  in  a 
state  that  made  him  useless  for  days." 

As  she  listened,  Ann  Eliza  recalled  the  day  when  she 
had  come  on  Mr.  Ramy  sitting  in  abject  dejection  behind 
his  counter.  She  saw  again  the  blurred  unrecognizing  eyes 
he  had  raised  to  her,  the  layer  of  dust  over  everything  in 
the  shop,  and  the  green  bronze  clock  in  the  window  rep 
resenting  a  Newfoundland  dog  with  his  paw  on  a  book. 
She  stood  up  slowly. 

"Thank  you.  I'm  sorry  to  have  troubled  you." 

"It  was  no  trouble.  You  say  Ramy  married  your  sister 
last  October?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  they  went  to  St.  Louis  right  afterward. 
I  don't  know  how  to  find  her.  I  thought  maybe  somebody 
here  might  know  about  him." 

"Well,  possibly  some  of  the  workmen  might.  Leave  me 
your  name  and  I'll  send  you  word  if  I  get  on  his  track." 
[405] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

He  handed  her  a  pencil,  and  she  wrote  down  her  ad 
dress;  then  she  walked  away  blindly  between  the  clocks. 


XI 


"|\  TR.  LOOMIS,  true  to  his  word,  wrote  a  few  days 
later  that  he  had  enquired  in  vain  in  the  work 
shop  for  any  news  of  Ramy;  and  as  she  folded  this  letter 
and  laid  it  between  the  leaves  of  her  Bible,  Ann  Eliza 
felt  that  her  last  hope  was  gone.  Miss  Mellins,  of  course, 
had  long  since  suggested  the  mediation  of  the  police,  and 
cited  from  her  favourite  literature  convincing  instances 
of  the  supernatural  ability  of  the  Pinkerton  detective; 
but  Mr.  Hawkins,  when  called  in  council,  dashed  this 
project  by  remarking  that  detectives  cost  something  like 
twenty  dollars  a  day;  and  a  vague  fear  of  the  law,  some 
half-formed  vision  of  Evelina  in  the  clutch  of  a  blue- 
coated  "officer,"  kept  Ann  Eliza  from  invoking  the  aid 
of  the  police. 

After  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Loomis's  note  the  weeks  fol 
lowed  each  other  uneventfully.  Ann  Eliza's  cough  clung 
to  her  till  late  in  the  spring,  the  reflection  in  her  looking- 
glass  grew  more  bent  and  meagre,  and  her  forehead  sloped 
back  farther  toward  the  twist  of  hair  that  was  fastened 
above  her  parting  by  a  comb  of  black  India-rubber. 

Toward  spring  a  lady  who  was  expecting  a  baby  took 
up  her  abode  at  the  Mendoza  Family  Hotel,  and  through 
[406] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

the  friendly  intervention  of  Miss  Mellins  the  making  of 
some  of  the  baby-clothes  was  entrusted  to  Ann  Eliza. 
This  eased  her  of  anxiety  for  the  immediate  future;  but 
she  had  to  rouse  herself  to  feel  any  sense  of  relief.  Her 
personal  welfare  was  what  least  concerned  her.  Sometimes 
she  thought  of  giving  up  the  shop  altogether;  and  only  the 
fear  that,  if  she  changed  her  address,  Evelina  might  not 
be  able  to  find  her,  kept  her  from  carrying  out  this  plan. 
Since  she  had  lost  her  last  hope  of  tracing  her  sister, 
all  the  activities  of  her  lonely  imagination  had  been  con 
centrated  on  the  possibility  of  Evelina's  coming  back  to 
her.  The  discovery  of  Ramy's  secret  filled  her  with  dread 
ful  fears.  In  the  solitude  of  the  shop  and  the  back  room 
she  was  tortured  by  vague  pictures  of  Evelina's  sufferings. 
What  horrors  might  not  be  hidden  beneath  her  silence? 
Ann  Eliza's  great  dread  was  that  Miss  Mellins  should 
worm  out  of  her  what  she  had  learned  from  Mr.  Loomis. 
She  was  sure  Miss  Mellins  must  have  abominable  things 
to  tell  about  drug-fiends — things  she  did  not  have  the 
strength  to  hear.  "Drug-fiend" — the  very  word  was 
Satanic:  she  could  hear  Miss  Mellins  roll  it  on  her  tongue. 
But  Ann  Eliza's  own  imagination,  left  to  itself,  had  be 
gun  to  people  the  long  hours  with  evil  visions.  Sometimes, 
in  the  night,  she  thought  she  heard  herself  called:  the 
voice  was  her  sister's,  but  faint  with  a  nameless  terror. 
Her  most  peaceful  moments  were  those  in  which  she 
managed  to  convince  herself  that  Evelina  was  dead.  She 
[407] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

thought  of  her  then,  mournfully  but  more  calmly,  as 
thrust  away  under  the  neglected  mound  of  some  unknown 
cemetery,  where  no  headstone  marked  her  name,  no 
mourner  with  flowers  for  another  grave  paused  in  pity 
to  lay  a  blossom  on  hers.  But  this  vision  did  not  often 
give  Ann  Eliza  its  negative  relief:  and  always,  beneath 
its  hazy  lines,  lurked  the  dark  conviction  that  Evelina 
was  alive,  in  misery  and  longing  for  her. 

So  the  summer  wore  on.  Ann  Eliza  was  conscious  that 
Mrs.  Hawkins  and  Miss  Mellins  were  watching  her  with 
affectionate  anxiety,  but  the  knowledge  brought  no  com 
fort.  She  no  longer  cared  what  they  felt  or  thought  about 
her.  Her  grief  lay  far  beyond  touch  of  human  healing, 
and  after  a  while  she  became  aware  that  they  knew  they 
could  not  help  her.  They  still  came  in  as  often  as  their 
busy  lives  permitted,  but  their  visits  grew  shorter,  and 
Mrs.  Hawkins  always  brought  Arthur  or  the  baby,  so 
that  there  should  be  something  to  talk  about,  and  some 
one  whom  she  could  scold. 

The  autumn  came,  and  the  winter.  Business  had  fallen 
off  again,  and  but  few  purchasers  came  to  the  little  shop 
in  the  basement.  In  January  Ann  Eliza  pawned  her 
mother's  cashmere  scarf,  her  mosaic  brooch,  and  the  rose 
wood  what-not  on  which  the  clock  had  always  stood;  she 
would  have  sold  the  bedstead  too,  but  for  the  persistent 
vision  of  Evelina  returning  weak  and  weary,  and  not 
knowing  where  to  lay  her  head. 
[408] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

The  winter  passed  in  its  turn,  and  March  reappeared 
with  its  galaxies  of  yellow  jonquils  at  the  windy  street 
corners,  reminding  Ann  Eliza  of  the  spring  day  when 
Evelina  had  come  home  with  a  bunch  of  jonquils  in  her 
hand.  In  spite  of  the  flowers  which  lent  such  a  premature 
brightness  to  the  streets  the  month  was  fierce  and  stormy, 
and  Ann  Eliza  could  get  no  warmth  into  her  bones.  Never 
theless,  she  was  insensibly  beginning  to  take  up  the  heal 
ing  routine  of  life.  Little  by  little  she  had  grown  used  to 
being  alone,  she  had  begun  to  take  a  languid  interest  in 
the  one  or  two  new  purchasers  the  season  had  brought, 
and  though  the  thought  of  Evelina  was  as  poignant  as 
ever,  it  was  less  persistently  in  the  foreground  of  her  mind. 

Late  one  afternoon  she  was  sitting  behind  the  counter, 
wrapped  in  her  shawl,  and  wondering  how  soon  she  might 
draw  down  the  blinds  and  retreat  into  the  comparative 
cosiness  of  the  back  room.  She  was  not  thinking  of  any 
thing  in  particular,  except  perhaps  in  a  hazy  way  of  the 
lady  with  the  puffed  sleeves,  who  after  her  long  eclipse 
had  reappeared  the  day  before  in  sleeves  of  a  new  cut, 
and  bought  some  tape  and  needles.  The  lady  still  wore 
mourning,  but  she  was  evidently  lightening  it,  and  Ann 
Eliza  saw  in  this  the  hope  of  future  orders.  The  lady  had 
left  the  shop  about  an  hour  before,  walking  away  with 
her  graceful  step  toward  Fifth  Avenue.  She  had  wished 
Ann  Eliza  good  day  in  her  usual  affable  way,  and  Ann 
Eliza  thought  how  odd  it  was  that  they  should  have  been 
[409] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

acquainted  so  long,  and  yet  that  she  should  not  know 
the  lady's  name.  From  this  consideration  her  mind  wan 
dered  to  the  cut  of  the  lady's  new  sleeves,  and  she  was 
vexed  with  herself  for  not  having  noted  it  more  carefully. 
She  felt  Miss  Mellins  might  have  liked  to  know  about  it. 
Ann  Eliza's  powers  of  observation  had  never  been  as  keen 
as  Evelina's,  when  the  latter  was  not  too  self-absorbed 
to  exert  them.  As  Miss  Mellins  always  said,  Evelina 
could  "take  patterns  with  her  eyes":  she  could  have  cut 
that  new  sleeve  out  of  a  folded  newspaper  in  a  trice! 
Musing  on  these  things,  Ann  Eliza  wished  the  lady 
would  come  back  and  give  her  another  look  at  the  sleeve. 
It  was  not  unlikely  that  she  might  pass  that  way,  for  she 
certainly  lived  in  or  about  the  Square.  Suddenly  Ann 
Eliza  remarked  a  small  neat  handkerchief  on  the  counter: 
it  must  have  dropped  from  the  lady's  purse,  and  she 
would  probably  come  back  to  get  it.  Ann  Eliza,  pleased 
at  the  idea,  sat  on  behind  the  counter  and  watched  the 
darkening  street.  She  always  lit  the  gas  as  late  as  possible, 
keeping  the  box  of  matches  at  her  elbow,  so  that  if  any 
one  came  she  could  apply  a  quick  flame  to  the  gas-jet. 
At  length  through  the  deepening  dusk  she  distinguished 
a  slim  dark  figure  coming  down  the  steps  to  the  shop. 
With  a  little  warmth  of  pleasure  about  her  heart  she 
reached  up  to  light  the  gas.  "I  do  believe  I'll  ask  her  name 
this  time,"  she  thought.  She  raised  the  flame  to  its  full 
height,  and  saw  her  sister  standing  in  the  door. 
[410] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

There  she  was  at  last,  the  poor  pale  shade  of  Evelina, 
her  thin  face  blanched  of  its  faint  pink,  the  stiff  ripples 
gone  from  her  hair,  and  a  mantle  shabbier  than  Ann 
Eliza's  drawn  about  her  narrow  shoulders.  The  glare  of 
the  gas  beat  full  on  her  as  she  stood  and  looked  at  Ann 
Eliza. 

"Sister — oh,  Evelina!  I  knowed  you'd  come!" 

Ann  Eliza  had  caught  her  close  with  a  long  moan  of 
triumph.  Vague  words  poured  from  her  as  she  laid  her 
cheek  against  Evelina's — trivial  inarticulate  endearments 
caught  from  Mrs.  Hawkins's  long  discourses  to  her  baby. 

For  a  while  Evelina  let  herself  be  passively  held;  then 
she  drew  back  from  her  sister's  clasp  and  looked  about  * 
the  shop.  "I'm  dead  tired.  Ain't  there  any  fire  ?  "  she  asked.  I 

"Of  course  there  is !"  Ann  Eliza,  holding  her  hand  fast, 
drew  her  into  the  back  room.  She  did  not  want  to  ask 
any  questions  yet:  she  simply  wanted  to  feel  the  empti 
ness  of  the  room  brimmed  full  again  by  the  one  presence 
that  was  warmth  and  light  to  her. 

She  knelt  down  before  the  grate,  scraped  some  bits  of 
coal  and  kindling  from  the  bottom  of  the  coal-scuttle, 
and  drew  one  of  the  rocking-chairs  up  to  the  weak  flame. 
"There — that'll  blaze  up  in  a  minute,"  she  said.  She 
pressed  Evelina  down  on  the  faded  cushions  of  the  rock 
ing-chair,  and,  kneeling  beside  her,  began  to  rub  her  hands. 

"You're  stone-cold,  ain't  you?  Just  sit  still  and  warm 
yourself  while  I  run  and  get  the  kettle.  I've  got  something 
[411] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

you  always  used  to  fancy  for  supper."  She  laid  her  hand 
on  Evelina's  shoulder.  "Don't  talk — oh,  don't  talk  yet!" 
sjie  implored.  She  wanted  to  keep  that  one  frail  second  of 
happiness  .between  herself  and  what  she  knew  must  come. 

Evelina,  without  a  word,  bent  over  the  fire,  stretching 
her  thin  hands  to  the  blaze  and  watching  Ann  Eliza  fill 
the  kettle  and  set  the  supper  table.  Her  gaze  had  the 
dreamy  fixity  of  a  half-awakened  child's. 

Ann  Eliza,  with  a  smile  of  triumph,  brought  a  slice 
of  custard  pie  from  the  cupboard  and  put  it  by  her  sis 
ter's  plate. 

"You  do  like  that,  don't  you?  Miss  Mellins  sent  it 
down  to  me  this  morning.  She  had  her  aunt  from  Brooklyn 
to  dinner.  Ain't  it  funny  it  just  so  happened?" 

"I  ain't  hungry,"  said  Evelina,  rising  to  approach  the 
table. 

She  sat  down  in  her  usual  place,  looked  about  her  with 
the  same  wondering  stare,  and  then,  as  of  old,  poured 
herself  out  the  first  cup  of  tea. 

"Where's  the  what-not  gone  to?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

Ann  Eliza  set  down  the  teapot  and  rose  to  get  a  spoon 
from  the  cupboard.  With  her  back  to  the  room  she  said: 
"The  what-not?  Why,  you  see,  dearie,  living  here  all 
alone  by  myself  it  only  made  one  more  thing  to  dust;  so 
I  sold  it." 

Evelina's  eyes  were  still  travelling  about  the  familiar 
room.  Though  it  was  against  all  the  traditions  of  the 
[412] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

Banner  family  to  sell  any  household  possession,  she 
showed  no  surprise  at  her  sister's  answer. 

"And  the  clock?  The  clock's  gone  too." 

"Oh,  I  gave  that  away — I  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Hawkins. 
She's  kep'  awake  so  nights  with  that  last  baby." 

"I  wish  you'd  never  bought  it,"  said  Evelina  harshly. 

Ann  Eliza's  heart  grew  faint  with  fear.  Without  an 
swering,  she  crossed  over  to  her  sister's  seat  and  poured 
her  out  a  second  cup  of  tea.  Then  another  thought  struck 
her,  and  she  went  back  to  the  cupboard  and  took  out 
the  cordial.  In  Evelina's  absence  considerable  draughts 
had  been  drawn  from  it  by  invalid  neighbours;  but  a 
glassful  of  the  precious  liquid  still  remained. 

"Here,  drink  this  right  off — it'll  warm  you  up  quicker 
than  anything,"  Ann  Eliza  said. 

Evelina  obeyed,  and  a  slight  spark  of  colour  came  into 
her  cheeks.  She  turned  to  the  custard  pie  and  began  to 
eat  with  a  silent  voracity  distressing  to  watch.  She  did 
not  even  look  to  see  what  was  left  for  Ann  Eliza. 

"I  ain't  hungry,"  she  said  at  last  as  she  laid  down  her 
fork.  "I'm  only  so  dead  tired — that's  the  trouble." 

"Then  you'd  better  get  right  into  bed.  Here's  my  old 
plaid  dressing-gown — you  remember  it,  don't  you?" 
Ann  Eliza  laughed,  recalling  Evelina's  ironies  on  the 
subject  of  the  antiquated  garment.  With  trembling 
fingers  she  began  to  undo  her  sister's  cloak.  The  dress 
beneath  it  told  a  tale  of  poverty  that  Ann  Eliza  dared 
[413] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

not  pause  to  note.  She  drew  it  gently  off,  and  as  it  slipped 
from  Evelina's  shoulders  it  revealed  a  tiny  black  bag 
hanging  on  a  ribbon  about  her  neck.  Evelina  lifted  her 
hand  as  though  to  screen  the  bag  from  Ann  Eliza;  and 
the  elder  sister,  seeing  the  gesture,  continued  her  task 
with  lowered  eyes.  She  undressed  Evelina  as  quickly  as 
she  could,  and  wrapping  her  in  the  plaid  dressing-gown 
put  her  to  bed,  and  spread  her  own  shawl  and  her  sister's 
cloak  above  the  blanket. 

"Where's  the  old  red  comfortable?"  Evelina  asked, 
as  she  sank  down  on  the  pillow. 

"The  comfortable?  Oh,  it  was  so  hot  and  heavy  I 
never  used  it  after  you  went — so  I  sold  that  too.  I  never 
could  sleep  under  much  clothes." 

She  became  aware  that  her  sister  was  looking  at  her 
more  attentively. 

"I  guess  you've  been  in  trouble  too,"  Evelina  said. 

"Me?  In  trouble?  What  do  you  mean,  Evelina?" 

"You've  had  to  pawn  the  things,  I  suppose,"  Evelina 
:  continued  in  a  weary  unmoved  tone.  "Well,  I've  been 
through  worse  than  that.  I've  been  to  hell  and  back." 

"Oh,  Evelina — don't  say  it,  sister!"  Ann  Eliza  im 
plored,  shrinking  from  the  unholy  word.  She  knelt  down 
and  began  to  rub  her  sister's  feet  beneath  the  bed-clothes. 

"I've  been  to  hell  and  back — if  I  am  back,"  Evelina 
repeated.  She  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow  and  began 
to  talk  with  a  sudden  feverish  volubility.  "It  began  right 
•[414] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

away,  less  than  a  month  after  we  were  married.  I've  been 
in  hell  all  that  time,  Ann  Eliza/'  She  fixed  her  eyes  with 
passionate  intentness  on  Ann  Eliza's  face.  "He  took 
opium.  I  didn't  find  it  out  till  long  afterward — at  first, 
when  he  acted  so  strange,  I  thought  he  drank.  But  it  was 
worse,  much  worse  than  drinking." 

"Oh,  sister,  don't  say  it— don't  say  it  yet!  It's  so 
sweet  just  to  have  you  here  with  me  again." 

"I  must  say  it,"  Evelina  insisted,  her  flushed  face 
burning  with  a  kind  of  bitter  cruelty.  "You  don't  know 
what  life's  like — you  don't  know  anything  about  it — 
setting  here  safe  all  the  while  in  this  peaceful  place." 

"Oh,  Evelina — why  didn't  you  write  and  send  for  me 
if  it  was  like  that?" 

"That's  why  I  couldn't  write.  Didn't  you  guess  I  was 
ashamed?  " 

"How  could  you  be?  Ashamed  to  write  to  Ann  Eliza?" 

Evelina  raised  herself  on  her  thin  elbow,  while  Ann 
Eliza,  bending  over,  drew  a  corner  of  the  shawl  about  her 
shoulder. 

"Do  lay  down  again.  You'll  catch  your  death." 

*'My  death?  That  don't  frighten  me!  You  don't  know 
what  I've  been  through."  And  sitting  upright  in  the  old 
mahogany  bed,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  chattering  teeth, 
and  Ann  Eliza's  trembling  arm  clasping  the  shawl  about 
her  neck,  Evelina  poured  out  her  story.  It  was  a  tale  of 
misery  and  humiliation  so  remote  from  the  elder  sister's 
[415] 


BUNKER    SISTERS 

innocent  experiences  that  much  of  it  was  hardly  intelli 
gible  to  her.  Evelina's  dreadful  familiarity  with  it  all,  her 
fluency  about  things  which  Ann  Eliza  half-guessed  and 
quickly  shuddered  back  from,  seemed  even  more  alien 
and  terrible  than  the  actual  tale  she  told.  It  was  one 
thing — and  heaven  knew  it  was  bad  enough! — to  learn 
that  one's  sister's  husband  was  a  drug-fiend;  it  was 
another,  and  much  worse  thing,  to  learn  from  that  sis 
ter's  pallid  lips  what  vileness  lay  behind  the  word. 

Evelina,  unconscious  of  any  distress  but  her  own,  sat 
upright,  shivering  in  Arm  Eliza's  hold,  while  she  piled 
up,  detail  by  detail,  her  dreary  narrative. 

"The  minute  we  got  out  there,  and  he  found  the  job 
wasn't  as  good  as  he  expected,  he  changed.  At  first  I 
thought  he  was  sick — I  used  to  try  to  keep  him  home 
and  nurse  him.  Then  I  saw  it  was  something  different. 
He  used  to  go  off  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  when  he  came 
back  his  eyes  kinder  had  a  fog  over  them.  Sometimes  he 
didn't  har'ly  know  me,  and  when  he  did  he  seemed  to 
hate  me.  Once  he  hit  me  here."  She  touched  her  breast. 
"Do  you  remember,  Ann  Eliza,  that  time  he  didn't 
come  to  see  us  for  a  week — the  time  after  we  all  went  to 
Central  Park  together — and  you  and  I  thought  he  must 
be  sick?" 

Ann  Eliza  nodded. 

"Well,  that  was  the  trouble— he'd  been  at  it  then. 
But  nothing  like  as  bad.  After  we'd  been  out  there  about 
[4101 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

a  month  he  disappeared  for  a  whole  week.  They  took 
him  back  at  the  store,  and  gave  him  another  chance; 
but  the  second  time  they  discharged  him,  and  he  drifted 
round  for  ever  so  long  before  he  could  get  another  job. 
We  spent  all  our  money  and  had  to  move  to  a  cheaper 
place.  Then  he  got  something  to  do,  but  they  hardly  paid 
him  anything,  and  he  didn't  stay  there  long.  When  he 
found  out  about  the  baby — " 

"The  baby?"  Ann  Eliza  faltered. 

"It's  dead — it  only  lived  a  day.  When  he  found  out 
about  it,  he  got  mad,  and  said  he  hadn't  any  money  to 
pay  doctors'  bills,  and  I'd  better  write  to  you  to  help 
us.  He  had  an  idea  you  had  money  hidden  away  that  I 
didn't  know  about."  She  turned  to  her  sister  with  re 
morseful  eyes.  "It  was  him  that  made  me  get  that  hun 
dred  dollars  out  of  you." 

"Hush,  hush.  I  always  meant  it  for  you  anyhow." 

"Yes,  but  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it  if  he  hadn't  been 
at  me  the  whole  time.  He  used  to  make  me  do  just  what 
he  wanted.  Well,  when  I  said  I  wouldn't  write  to  you 
for  more  money  he  said  I'd  better  try  and  earn  some  my 
self.  That  was  when  he  struck  me.  . .  .  Oh,  you  don't 
know  what  I'm  talking  about  yet ! .  .  .  I  tried  to  get  work 
at  a  milliner's,  but  I  was  so  sick  I  couldn't  stay.  I  was 
sick  all  the  time.  I  wisht  I'd  ha'  died,  Ann  Eliza." 

"No,  no,  Evelina." 

"Yes,  I  do.  It  kept  getting  worse  and  worse.  We  pawned 
[4171 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

the  furniture,  and  they  turned  us  out  because  we  couldn't 
pay  the  rent;  and  so  then  we  went  to  board  with  Mrs. 
Hochmiiller." 

Ann  Eliza  pressed  her  closer  to  dissemble  her  own 
tremor.  "Mrs.  Hochmuller?" 

"Didn't  you  know  she  was  out  there?  She  moved  out 
a  month  after  we  did.  She  wasn't  bad  to  me,  and  I  think 
she  tried  to  keep  him  straight — but  Linda — ' 

"Linda—?" 

"Well,  when  I  kep'  getting  worse,  and  he  was  always 
off,  for  days  at  a  time,  the  doctor  had  me  sent  to  a  hos 
pital." 

"A  hospital?  Sister— sister !" 

"It  was  better  than  being  with  him;  and  the  doctors 
were  real  kind  to  me.  After  the  baby  was  born  I  was  very 
sick  and  had  to  stay  there  a  good  while.  And  one  day 
when  I  was  laying  there  Mrs.  Hochmuller  came  in  as 
white  as  a  sheet,  and  told  me  him  and  Linda  had  gone 
off  together  and  taken  all  her  money.  That's  the  last  I 
ever  saw  of  him."  She  broke  off  with  a  laugh  and  began  to 
cough  again. 

Ann  Eliza  tried  to  persuade  her  to  lie  down  and  sleep, 
but  the  rest  of  her  story  had  to  be  told  before  she  could 
be  soothed  into  consent.  After  the  news  of  Ramy's  flight 
she  had  had  brain  fever,  and  had  been  sent  to  another 
hospital  where  she  stayed  a  long  time — how  long  she 
couldn't  remember.  Dates  and  days  meant  nothing  l.o 
her  in  the  shapeless  ruin  of  her  life.  When  she  left  the 
[418] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

hospital  she  found  that  Mrs.  Hochmliller  had  gone  too. 
She  was  penniless,  and  had  no  one  to  turn  to.  A  lady 
visitor  at  the  hospital  was  kind,  and  found  her  a  place 
where  she  did  housework;  but  she  was  so  weak  they 
couldn't  keep  her.  Then  she  got  a  job  as  waitress  in  a 
down-town  lunch-room,  but  one  day  she  fainted  while 
she  was  handing  a  dish,  and  that  evening  when  they 
paid  her  they  told  her  she  needn't  come  again. 

"After  that  I  begged  in  the  streets" — (Ann  Eliza's 
grasp  again  grew  tight) — "and  one  afternoon  last  week, 
when  the  matinees  was  coming  out,  I  met  a  man  with  a 
pleasant  face,  something  like  Mr.  Hawkins,  and  he 
stopped  and  asked  me  what  the  trouble  was.  I  told  him 
if  he'd  give  me  five  dollars  I'd  have  money  enough  to 
buy  a  ticket  back  to  New  York,  and  he  took  a  good  look 
at  me  and  said,  well,  if  that  was  what  I  wanted  he'd  go 
straight  to  the  station  with  me  and  give  me  the  five  dol 
lars  there.  So  he  did — and  he  bought  the  ticket,  and  put 
me  in  the  cars." 

Evelina  sank  back,  her  face  a  sallow  wedge  in  the  white 
cleft  of  the  pillow.  Ann  Eliza  leaned  over  her,  and  for  a 

long  time  they  held  each  other  without  speaking. 
- 

They  were  still  clasped  in  this  dumb  embrace  when 

there  was  a  step  in  the  shop  and  Ann  Eliza,  starting  up, 
saw  Miss  Mellins  in  the  doorway. 

"My  sakes,  Miss  Bunner!  What  in  the  land  are  you 
doing?  Miss  Evelina — Mrs.  Ramy — it  ain't  you?" 

Miss  Mellins's  eyes,  bursting  from  their  sockets, 
[410] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

sprang  from  Evelina's  pallid  face  to  the  disordered  supper 
table  and  the  heap  of  worn  clothes  on  the  floor;  then  they 
turned  back  to  Ann  Eliza,  who  had  placed  herself  on  the 
defensive  between  her  sister  and  the  dress-maker. 

"My  sister  Evelina  has  come  back — come  back  on  a 
visit.  She  was  taken  sick  in  the  cars  on  the  way  home — 
I  guess  she  caught  cold — so  I  made  her  go  right  to  bed  as 
soon  as  ever  she  got  here." 

Ann  Eliza  was  surprised  at  the  strength  and  steadiness 
of  her  voice.  Fortified  by  its  sound  she  went  on,  her  eyes 
on  Miss  Mellins's  baffled  countenance:  "Mr.  Ramy  has 
gone  west  on  a  trip — a  trip  connected  with  his  business; 
and  Evelina  is  going  to  stay  with  me  till  he  comes  back." 


XII 


T  T  7HAT  measure  of  belief  her  explanation  of  Evelina's 
return  obtained  in  the  small  circle  of  her  friends 
Ann  Eliza  did  not  pause  to  enquire.  Though  she  could 
not  remember  ever  having  told  a  lie  before,  she  adhered 
with  rigid  tenacity  to  the  consequences  of  her  first  lapse 
from  truth,  and  fortified  her  original  statement  with  addi 
tional  details  whenever  a  questioner  sought  to  take  her 
unawares. 

But  other  and  more  serious  burdens  lay  on  her  startled 
conscience.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  dimly  faced 
the  awful  problem  of  the  inutility  of  self-sacrifice.  Hitherto 
[420] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

she  had  never  thought  of  questioning  the  inherited  prin 
ciples  which  had  guided  her  life.  Self-effacement  for  the 
good  of  others  had  always  seemed  to  her  both  natural 
and  necessary;  but  then  she  had  taken  it  for  granted  that 
it  implied  the  securing  of  that  good.  Now  she  perceived 
that  to  refuse  the  gifts  of  life  does  not  ensure  their  trans 
mission  to  those  for  whom  they  have  been  surrendered; 
and  her  familiar  heaven  was  unpeopled.  She  felt  she 
could  no  longer  trust  hi  the  goodness  of  God,  and  that 
if  he  was  not  good  he  was  not  God,  and  there  was  only 
a  black  abyss  above  the  roof  of  Bunner  Sisters. 

But  there  was  little  time  to  brood  upon  such  problems. 
The  care  of  Evelina  rilled  Ann  Eliza's  days  and  nights. 
The  hastily  summoned  doctor  had  pronounced  her  to  be 
suffering  from  pneumonia,  and  under  his  care  the  first 
stress  of  the  disease  was  relieved.  But  her  recovery  was 
only  partial,  and  long  after  the  doctor's  visits  had  ceased 
she  continued  to  lie  in  bed,  too  weak  to  move,  and  seem 
ingly  indifferent  to  everything  about  her. 

At  length  one  evening,  about  six  weeks  after  her  return, 

she  said  to  her  sister:  "I  don't  feel's  if  I'd  ever  get  up 

:'*'        -    „ 
again. 

Ann  Eliza  turned  from  the  kettle  she  was  placing  on 
the  stove.  She  was  startled  by  the  echo  the  words  woke 
in  her  own  breast. 

"Don't  you  talk  like  that,  Evelina!  I  guess  you're 
on'y  tired  out — and  disheartened." 
[421] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

"Yes,  I'm  disheartened,"  Evelina  murmured. 

A  few  months  earlier  Ann  Eliza  would  have  met  the 
confession  with  a  word  of  pious  admonition;  now  she 
accepted  it  in  silence. 

"Maybe  you'll  brighten  up  when  your  cough  gets  bet 
ter,"  she  suggested. 

"Yes — or  my  cough'll  get  better  when  I  brighten  up," 
Evelina  retorted  with  a  touch  of  her  old  tartness. 

"Does  your  cough  keep  on  hurting  you  jest  as  much?" 

"I  don't  see's  there's  much  difference." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  get  the  doctor  to  come  round  again," 
Ann  Eliza  said,  trying  for  the  matter-of-course  tone  in 
which  one  might  speak  of  sending  for  the  plumber  or  the 
gas-fitter. 

"It  ain't  any  use  sending  for  the  doctor — and  who's 
going  to  pay  him?" 

"I  am,"  answered  the  elder  sister.  "Here's  your  tea, 
and  a  mite  of  toast.  Don't  that  tempt  you?" 

Already,  in  the  watches  of  the  night,  Ann  Eliza  had 
been  tormented  by  that  same  question — who  was  to  pay 
the  doctor? — and  a  few  days  before  she  had  temporarily 
silenced  it  by  borrowing  twenty  dollars  of  Miss  Mellins. 
The  transaction  had  cost  her  one  of  the  bitterest  struggles 
of  her  life.  She  had  never  borrowed  a  penny  of  any  one 
before,  and  the  possibility  of  having  to  do  so  had  always 
been  classed  in  her  mind  among  those  shameful  extremi 
ties  to  which  Providence  does  not  let  decent  people  come. 
[422] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

But  nowadays  she  no  longer  believed  in  the  personal  j 
supervision  of  Providence;  and  had  she  been  compelled  j 
to  steal  the  money  instead  of  borrowing  it,  she  would 
have  felt  that  her  conscience  was  the  only  tribunal  before 
which  she  had  to  answer.  Nevertheless,  the  actual  humilia 
tion  of  having  to  ask  for  the  money  was  no  less  bitter; 
and  she  could  hardly  hope  that  Miss  Mellins  would  view 
the  case  with  the  same  detachment  as  herself.  Miss  Mel 
lins  was  very  kind;  but  she  not  unnaturally  felt  that  her 
kindness  should  be  rewarded  by  according  her  the  right 
to  ask  questions;  and  bit  by  bit  Ann  Eliza  saw  Evelina's 
miserable  secret  slipping  into  the  dress-maker's  possession. 

When  the  doctor  came  she  left  him  alone  with  Evelina, 
busying  herself  in  the  shop  that  she  might  have  an  op 
portunity  of  seeing  him  alone  on  his  way  out.  To  steady 
herself  she  began  to  sort  a  trayful  of  buttons,  and  when 
the  doctor  appeared  she  was  reciting  under  her  breath: 
"Twenty-four  horn,  two  and  a  half  cards  fancy  pearl. .  .  ." 
She  saw  at  once  that  his  look  was  grave. 

He  sat  down  on  the  chair  beside  the  counter,  and  her 
mind  travelled  miles  before  he  spoke. 

"Miss  Bunner,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  let  me 
get  a  bed  for  your  sister  at  St.  Luke's." 

"The  hospital?" 

"Come    now,    you're    above    that   sort   of   prejudice, 
aren't  you?"  The  doctor  spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
coaxes  a  spoiled  child.  "I  know  how  devoted  you  are — • 
[  423  ] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

but  Mrs.  Ramy  can  be  much  better  cared  for  there  thaw 
here.  You  really  haven't  time  to  look  after  her  and  at- 
tend  to  your  business  as  well.  There'll  be  no  expense, 
you  understand — " 

Ann  Eliza  made  no  answer.  "You  think  my  sister's 
going  to  be  sick  a  good  while,  then?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  yes — possibly." 

"You  think  she's  very  sick?" 

"Well,  yes.  She's  very  sick." 

His  face  had  grown  still  graver;  he  sat  there  as  though 
he  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  hurry. 

Ann  Eliza  continued  to  separate  the  pearl  and  horn 
buttons.  Suddenly  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 
"Is  she  going  to  die?" 

The  doctor  laid  a  kindly  hand  on  hers.  "We  never  say 
that,  Miss  Bunner.  Human  skill  works  wonders — and  at 
the  hospital  Mrs.  Ramy  would  have  every  chance." 

"What  is  it?  What's  she  dying  of?" 

The  doctor  hesitated,  seeking  to  substitute  a  popular 
phrase  for  the  scientific  terminology  which  rose  to  his 
lips. 

"I  want  to  know,"  Ann  Eliza  persisted. 

"Yes,  of  course;  I  understand.  Well,  your  sister  has 
had  a  hard  time  lately,  and  there  is  a  complication  of 
causes,  resulting  in  consumption — rapid  consumption* 
At  the  hospital—" 

"I'll  keep  her  here,"  said  Ann  Eliza  quietly. 
[424] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

After  the  doctor  had  gone  she  went  on  for  some  time 
sorting  the  buttons;  then  she  slipped  the  tray  into  its 
place  on  a  shelf  behind  the  counter  and  went  into  the 
back  room.  She  found  Evelina  propped  upright  against 
the  pillows,  a  flush  of  agitation  on  her  cheeks.  Ann 
Eliza  pulled  up  the  shawl  which  had  slipped  from  her 
sister's  shoulders. 

"How  long  you've  been!  What's  he  been  saying?" 

"Oh,  he  went  long  ago — he  on'y  stopped  to  give  me 
a  prescription.  I  was  sorting  out  that  tray  of  buttons. 
Miss  Mellins's  girl  got  them  all  mixed  up." 

She  felt  Evelina's  eyes  upon  her. 

"He  must  have  said  something:  what  was  it?" 

"Why,  he  said  you'd  have  to  be  careful — and  stay  in 
bed — and  take  this  new  medicine  he's  given  you." 

"Did  he  say  I  was  going  to  get  well?" 

"Why,  Evelina!" 

"What's  the  use,  Ann  Eliza?  You  can't  deceive  me. 
I've  just  been  up  to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass;  and  I 
saw  plenty  of  'em  in  the  hospital  that  looked  like  me. 
They  didn't  get  well,  and  I  ain't  going  to."  Her  head 
dropped  back,  "It  don't  much  matter — I'm  about  tired. 
On'y  there's  one  thing — Ann  Eliza — " 

The  elder  sister  drew  near  to  the  bed. 

"There's  one  thing  I  ain't  told  you.  I  didn't  want  to 
tell  you  yet  because  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  sorry — 
but  if  he  says  I'm  going  to  die  I've  got  to  say  it."  She 
[425] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

stopped  to  cough,  and  to  Ann  Eliza  it  now  seemed  as 
though  every  cough  struck  a  minute  from  the  hours  re 
maining  to  her. 

"Don't  talk  now — you're  tired." 

"I'll  be  tireder  to-morrow,  I  guess.  And  I  want  you 
should  know.  Sit  down  close  to  me — there." 

Ann  Eliza  sat  down  in  silence,  stroking  her  shrunken 
hand. 

"I'm  a  Roman  Catholic,  Ann  Eliza." 

"Evelina — oh,  Evelina  Bunner!  A  Roman  Catholic — 
you  ?  Oh,  Evelina,  did  he  make  you?" 

Evelina  shook  her  head.  "I  guess  he  didn't  have  no 
religion;  he  never  spoke  of  it.  But  you  see  Mrs.  Hoch- 
muller  was  a  Catholic,  and  so  when  I  was  sick  she  got 
the  doctor  to  send  me  to  a  Roman  Catholic  hospital, 
and  the  sisters  was  so  good  to  me  there — and  the  priest 
used  to  come  and  talk  to  me;  and  the  things  he  said  kep' 
me  from  going  crazy.  He  seemed  to  make  everything 
easier." 

"Oh,  sister,  how  could  you?"  Ann  Eliza  wailed.  She 
knew  little  of  the  Catholic  religion  except  that  "Papists" 
believed  in  it — in  itself  a  sufficient  indictment.  Her  spir 
itual  rebellion  had  not  freed  her  from  the  formal  part  of 
her  religious  belief,  and  apostasy  had  always  seemed  to 
her  one  of  the  sins  from  which  the  pure  in  mind  avert  their 
thoughts. 

"And  then  when  the  baby  was  born,"  Evelina  con- 
[426] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

tinued,  "he  christened  it  right  away,  so  it  could  go  to 
heaven;  and  after  that,  you  see,  I  had  to  be  a  Catholic." 

"I  don't  see—" 

"Don't  I  have  to  be  where  the  baby  is  ?  I  couldn't  ever 
ha'  gone  there  if  I  hadn't  been  made  a  Catholic.  Don't 
you  understand  that?" 

Ann  Eliza  sat  speechless,  drawing  her  hand  away. 
Once  more  she  found  herself  shut  out  of  Evelina's  heart, 
an  exile  from  her  closest  affections. 

"I've  got  to  go  where  the  baby  is,"  Evelina  feverishly 
insisted. 

Ann  Eliza  could  think  of  nothing  to  say;  she  could 
only  feel  that  Evelina  was  dying,  and  dying  as  a  stranger 
in  her  arms.  Ramy  and  the  day-old  baby  had  parted  her 
forever  from-  her  sister. 

Evelina  began  again.  "If  I  get  worse  I  want  you  to 
send  for  a  priest.  Miss  Mellins'll  know  where  to  send — 
she's  got  an  aunt  that's  a  Catholic.  Promise  me  faithful 
you  will." 

"I  promise,"  said  Ann  Eliza. 

After  that  they  spoke  no  more  of  the  matter;  but  Ann 
Eliza  now  understood  that  the  little  black  bag  about  her 
sister's  neck,  which  she  had  innocently  taken  for  a  me 
mento  of  Ramy,  was  some  kind  of  sacrilegious  amulet,  j 
and  her  fingers  shrank  from  its  contact  when  she  bathed 
and  dressed  Evelina.  It  seemed  to  her  the  diabolical  in- 
strument  of  their  estrangement. 
[427] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 


xin 

OPRING  had  really  come  at  last.  There  were  leaves 
^  on  the  ailanthus-tree  that  Evelina  could  see  from 
her  bed,  gentle  clouds  floated  over  it  in  the  blue,  and  now 
arid  then  the  cry  of  a  flower-seller  sounded  from  the  street. 

One  day  there  was  a  shy  knock  on  the  back-room  door, 
and  Johnny  Hawkins  came  in  with  two  yellow  jonquils 
in  his  fist.  He  was  getting  bigger  and  squarer,  and  his 
round  freckled  face  was  growing  into  a  smaller  copy  of 
his  father's.  He  walked  up  to  Evelina  and  held  out  the 
flowers. 

"They  blew  off  the  cart  and  the  fellow  said  I  could 
keep  'em.  But  you  can  have  'em,"  he  announced. 

Ann  Eliza  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  sewing-machine 
and  tried  to  take  the  flowers  from  him. 

"They  ain't  for  you;  they're  for  her,"  he  sturdily  ob 
jected;  and  Evelina  held  out  her  hand  for  the  jonquils. 

After  Johnny  had  gone  she  lay  and  looked  at  them 
without  speaking.  Ann  Eliza,  who  had  gone  back  to  the 
machine,  bent  her  head  over  the  seam  she  was  stitching; 
the  click,  click,  click  of  the  machine  sounded  in  her  ear 
like  the  tick  of  Ramy's  clock,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
life  had  gone  backward,  and  that  Evelina,  radiant  and 
foolish,  had  just  come  into  the  room  with  the  yellow 
flowers  in  her  hand. 

[428] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

When  at  last  she  ventured  to  look  up,  she  saw  that 
her  sister's  head  had  drooped  against  the  pillow,  and  that 
she  was  sleeping  quietly.  Her  relaxed  hand  still  held  the 
jonquils,  but  it  was  evident  that  they  had  awakened  no 
memories;  she  had  dozed  off  almost  as  soon  as  Johnny 
had  given  them  to  her.  The  discovery  gave  Ann  Eliza  a 
startled  sense  of  the  ruins  that  must  be  piled  upon  her 
past.  "I  don't  believe  I  could  have  forgotten  that  day, 
though,"  she  said  to  herself.  But  she  was  glad  that  Eve 
lina  had  forgotten. 

Evelina's  disease  moved  on  along  the  usual  course,  now 
lifting  her  on  a  brief  wave  of  elation,  now  sinking  her  to 
new  depths  of  weakness.  There  was  little  to  be  done,  and 
the  doctor  came  only  at  lengthening  intervals.  On  his  way 
out  he  always  repeated  his  first  friendly  suggestion  about 
sending  Evelina  to  the  hospital;  and  Ann  Eliza  always 
answered:  "I  guess  we  can  manage." 

The  hours  passed  for  her  with  the  fierce  rapidity  that 
great  joy  or  anguish  lends  them.  She  went  through  the 
days  with  a  sternly  smiling  precision,  but  she  hardly  knew 
what  was  happening,  and  when  night-fall  released  her 
from  the  shop,  and  she  could  carry  her  work  to  Evelina's 
bedside,  the  same  sense  of  unreality  accompanied  her, 
and  she  still  seemed  to  be  accomplishing  a  task  whose 
object  had  escaped  her  memory. 

Once,  when  Evelina  felt  better,  she  expressed  a  desire 
to  make  some  artificial  flowers,  and  Ann  ^Eliza,  deluded 
[429] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

by  this  awakening  interest,  got  out  the  faded  bundles  of 
stems  and  petals  and  the  little  tools  and  spools  of  wire. 
But  after  a  few  minutes  the  work  dropped  from  Evelina's 
hands  and  she  said:  "I'll  wait  till  to-morrow." 

She  never  again  spoke  of  the  flower-making,  but  one 
day,  after  watching  Ann  Eliza's  laboured  attempt  to 
trim  a  spring  hat  for  Mrs.  Hawkins,  she  demanded  impa 
tiently  that  the  hat  should  be  brought  to  her,  and  in  a 
trice  had  galvanized  the  lifeless  bow  and  given  the  brim 
the  twist  it  needed. 

These  were  rare  gleams;  and  more  frequent  were  the 
days  of  speechless  lassitude,  when  she  lay  for  hours 
silently  staring  at  the  window,  shaken  only  by  the  hard 
incessant  cough  that  sounded  to  Ann  Eliza  like  the 
hammering  of  nails  into  a  coffin. 

At  length  one  morning  Ann  Eliza,  starting  up  from 
the  mattress  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  hastily  called  Miss 
Mellins  down,  and  ran  through  the  smoky  dawn  for  the 
doctor.  He  came  back  with  her  and  did  what  he  could  to 
give  Evelina  momentary  relief;  then  he  went  away, 
promising  to  look  in  again  before  night.  Miss  Mellins, 
her  head  still  covered  with  curl-papers,  disappeared  in 
his  wake,  and  when  the  sisters  were  alone  Evelina  beck 
oned  to  Ann  Eliza. 

"You  promised,"  she  whispered,  grasping  her  sister's 
arm;  and  Ann  Eliza  understood.  She  had  not  yet  dared 
to  tell  Miss  Mellins  of  Evelina's  change  of  faith;  it  had 
[430] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

seemed  even  more  difficult  than  borrowing  the  money; 
but  now  it  had  to  be  done.  She  ran  upstairs  after  the 
dress-maker  and  detained  her  on  the  landing. 

"Miss  Mellins,  can  you  tell  me  where  to  send  for  a 
priest— a  Roman  Catholic  priest?" 

"A  priest,  Miss  Bunner?" 

"Yes.  My  sister  became  a  Roman  Catholic  while  she 
was  away.  They  were  kind  to  her  in  her  sickness — and 
now  she  wants  a  priest."  Ann  Eliza  faced  Miss  Mellins 
with  unflinching  eyes. 

"My  aunt  Dugan'll  know.  I'll  run  right  round  to  her 
the  minute  I  get  my  papers  off,"  the  dress-maker  prom 
ised;  and  Ann  Eliza  thanked  her. 

An  hour  or  two  later  the  priest  appeared.  Ann  Eliza, 
who  was  watching,  saw  him  coming  down  the  steps  to 
the  shop-door  and  went  to  meet  him.  His  expression  was 
kind,  but  she  shrank  from  his  peculiar  dress,  and  from  his 
pale  face  with  its  bluish  chin  and  enigmatic  smile.  Ann 
Eliza  remained  in  the  shop.  Miss  Mellins's  girl  had 
mixed  the  buttons  again  and  she  set  herself  to  sort  them. 
The  priest  stayed  a  long  time  with  Evelina.  When  he 
'  again  carried  his  enigmatic  smile  past  the  counter,  and 
Ann  Eliza  rejoined  her  sister,  Evelina  was  smiling  with 
;  something  of  the  same  mystery;  but  she  did  not  tell  her 
secret. 

After  that  it  seemed  to  Ann  Eliza  that  the  shop  and 
the  back  room  no  longer  belonged  to  her.  It  was  as  though 
[431] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

she  were  there  on  sufferance,  indulgently  tolerated  by 
the  unseen  power  which  hovered  over  Evelina  even  in 
the  absence  of  its  minister.  The  priest  came  almost  daily; 
and  at  last  a  day  arrived  when  he  was  called  to  admin 
ister  some  rite  of  which  Ann  Eliza  but  dimly  grasped  the 
sacramental  meaning.  All  she  knew  was  that  it  meant 
that  Evelina  was  going,  and  going,  under  this  alien  guid 
ance,  even  farther  from  her  than  to  the  dark  places  of 
death. 

When  the  priest  came,  with  something  covered  in  his 
hands,  she  crept  into  the  shop,  closing  the  door  of  the 
back  room  to  leave  him  alone  with  Evelina. 

It  was  a  warm  afternoon  in  May,  and  the  crooked 
ailanthus-tree  rooted  in  a  fissure  of  the  opposite  pave 
ment  was  a  fountain  of  tender  green.  Women  in  light 
dresses  passed  with  the  languid  step  of  spring;  and  pres 
ently  there  came  a  man  with  a  hand-cart  full  of  pansy 
and  geranium  plants  who  stopped  outside  the  window, 
signalling  to  Ann  Eliza  to  buy. 

An  hour  went  by  before  the  door  of  the  back  room 
opened  and  the  priest  reappeared  with  that  mysterious 
covered  something  in  his  hands.  Ann  Eliza  had  risen, 
drawing  back  as  he  passed.  He  had  doubtless  divined  her 
antipathy,  for  he  had  hitherto  only  bowed  in  going  in 
and  out;  but  to-day  he  paused  and  looked  at  her  com 
passionately. 

"I  have  left  your  sister  in  a  very  beautiful  state  of 
[  432  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

mind,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice  like  a  woman's.  "She  is 
full  of  spiritual  consolation." 

Ann  Eliza  was  silent,  and  he  bowed  and  went  out. 
She  hastened  back  to  Evelina's  bed,  and  knelt  down 
beside  it.  Evelina's  eyes  were  very  large  and  bright;  she 
turned  them  on  Ann  Eliza  with  a  look  of  inner  illumina 
tion. 

"I  shall  see  the  baby,"  she  said;  then  her  eyelids  fell 
and  she  dozed. 

The  doctor  came  again  at  nightfall,  administering  some 
last  palliatives;  and  after  he  had  gone  Ann  Eliza,  refusing 
to  have  her  vigil  shared  by  Miss  Mellins  or  Mrs.  Hawkins, 
sat  down  to  keep  watch  alone. 

It  was  a  very  quiet  night.  Evelina  never  spoke  or  opened 
her  eyes,  but  in  the  still  hour  before  dawn  Ann  Eliza  saw 
that  the  restless  hand  outside  the  bed-clothes  had  stopped 
its  twitching.  She  stooped  over  and  felt  no  breath  on  her 
sister's  lips. 

The  funeral  took  place  three  days  later.  Evelina  was 

buried   in   Calvary   Cemetery,   the   priest  assuming   the 

-  whole  care  of  the   necessary  arrangements,   while  Ann 

Eliza,  a  passive  spectator,  beheld  with  stony  indifference 

this  last  negation  of  her  past. 

A  week  afterward  she  stood  in  her  bonnet  and  mantle 
in  the  doorway  of  the  little  shop.  Its  whole  aspect  had 
changed.  Counter  and  shelves  were  bare,  the  window  was 
[433] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

stripped  of  its  familiar  miscellany  of  artificial  flowers, 
note-paper,  wire  hat-frames,  and  limp  garments  from  the 
dyer's;  and  against  the  glass  pane  of  the  doorway  hung 
a  sign:  "This  store  to  let." 

Ann  Eliza  turned  her  eyes  from  the  sign  as  she  went 
out  and  locked  the  door  behind  her.  Evelina's  funeral  had 
been  very  expensive,  and  Ann  Eliza,  having  sold  her 
stock-in-trade  and  the  few  articles  of  furniture  that  re 
mained  to  her,  was  leaving  the  shop  for  the  last  time. 
She  had  not  been  able  to  buy  any  mourning,  but  Miss 
Mellins  had  sewed  some  crape  on  her  old  black  mantle 
and  bonnet,  and  having  no  gloves  she  slipped  her  bare 
hands  under  the  folds  of  the  mantle. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  the  air  was  full  of  a 
warm  sunshine  that  had  coaxed  open  nearly  every  win 
dow  in  the  street,  and  summoned  to  the  window-sills 
the  sickly  plants  nurtured  indoors  in  winter.  Ann  Eliza's 
way  lay  westward,  toward  Broadway;  but  at  the  corner 
she  paused  and  looked  back  down  the  familiar  length  of 
the  street.  Her  eyes  rested  a  moment  on  the  blotched 
"Bunner  Sisters"  above  the  empty  window  of  the  shop; 
then  they  travelled  on  to  the  overflowing  foliage  of  the 
Square,  above  which  was  the  church  tower  with  the  dial 
that  had  marked  the  hours  for  the  sisters  before  Ann 
Eliza  had  bought  the  nickel  clock.  She  looked  at  it  all 
as  though  it  had  been  the  scene  of  some  unknown  life, 
of  which  the  vague  report  had  reached  her:  she  felt  for 
I  434  1 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

herself  the  only  remote  pity  that  busy  people  accord  to 
the  misf  or  tunes  which  come  to  them  by  hearsay. 

She  walked  to  Broadway  and  down  to  the  office  of  the 
house-agent  to  whom  she  had  entrusted  the  sub-letting 
of  the  shop.  She  left  the  key  with  one  of  his  clerks,  who 
took  it  from  her  as  if  it  had  been  any  one  of  a  thousand 
others,  and  remarked  that  the  weather  looked  as  if  spring 
was  really  coming;  then  she  turned  and  began  to  move 
up  the  great  thoroughfare,  which  was  just  beginning  to 
wake  to  its  multitudinous  activities. 

She  walked  less  rapidly  now,  studying  each  shop  win 
dow  as  she  passed,  but  not  with  the  desultory  eye  of  en 
joyment:  the  watchful  fixity  of  her  gaze  overlooked 
everything  but  the  object  of  its  quest.  At  length  she 
stopped  before  a  small  window  wedged  between  two  mam 
moth  buildings,  and  displaying,  behind  its  shining  plate- 
glass  festooned  with  muslin,  a  varied  assortment  of  sofa- 
cushions,  tea-cloths,  pen-wipers,  painted  calendars  and 
other  specimens  of  feminine  industry.  In  a  corner  of  the 
window  she  had  read,  on  a  slip  of  paper  pasted  against 
the  pane:  "Wanted,  a  Saleslady,"  and  after  studying  the 
display  of  fancy  articles  beneath  it,  she  gave  her  mantle 
a  twitch,  straightened  her  shoulders  and  went  in. 

Behind  a  counter  crowded  with  pin-cushions,  watch- 
holders   and   other  needle- work  trifles,   a  plump  young 
woman  with  smooth  hair  sat  sewing  bows  of  ribbon  on 
a  scrap  basket.  The  little  shop  was  about  the  size  of  the 
[435] 


BUNNER    SISTERS 

one  on  which  Ann  Eliza  had  just  closed  the  door;  and  it 
looked  as  fresh  and  gay  and  thriving  as  she  and  Evelina 
had  once  dreamed  of  making  Banner  Sisters.  The  friendly 
air  of  the  place  made  her  pluck  up  courage  to  speak. 

"Saleslady?  Yes,  we  do  want  one.  Have  you  any  one 
to  recommend?"  the  young  woman  asked,  not  unkindly. 

Ann  Eliza  hesitated,  disconcerted  by  the  unexpected 
question;  and  the  other,  cocking  her  head  on  one  side  to 
study  the  effect  of  the  bow  she  had  just  sewed  on  the 
basket,  continued:  "We  can't  afford  more  than  thirty 
dollars  a  month,  but  the  work  is  light.  She  would  be  ex 
pected  to  do  a  little  fancy  sewing  between  times.  We 
want  a  bright  girl:  stylish,  and  pleasant  manners.  You 
know  what  I  mean.  Not  over  thirty,  anyhow;  and  nice- 
looking.  Will  you  write  down  the  name?" 

Ann  Eliza  looked  at  her  confusedly.  She  opened  her  lips 
to  explain,  and  then,  without  speaking,  turned  toward 
the  crisply-curtained  door. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  leave  the  oof-dress?"  the  young 
woman  called  out  after  her.  Ann  Eliza  went  out  into  the 
thronged  street.  The  great  city,  under  the  fair  spring  sky, 
seemed  to  throb  with  the  stir  of  innumerable  beginnings. 
She  walked  on,  looking  for  another  shop  window  with  a 
sign  in  it. 


436] 


P 


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